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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586415">The Beast of Camelot</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraketheDragon/pseuds/DraketheDragon'>DraketheDragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>All I now about Saber Alter is that she is heartless, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artoria is the Beast, Beauty and the Beast AU, Because this is going to be wild, Bounty Hunter Emiya Kiritsugu, Bounty Hunter Hisau Maiya, Completely Unintentional References, Crack, Curses, F/F, F/M, Funny to write, Hold onto your hats, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm also bad at titles, I'm going to stop now, Irisviel is the Beauty, Magic, Merlin is Merlin, Might be a little bit OOC - Freeform, Mordred is a teacup, References to Monty Python, Tags May Change, That is It, You Have Been Warned, and Summeries, and likes junk food, has a dog, he/him pronouns for Mordred, hopefully, ish, stuff like that</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:54:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>63,419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraketheDragon/pseuds/DraketheDragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, it’s the place where all the best fairy tales start. The ones with happy endings, the ones with dragons and princes and princesses and love at first sight. It always starts with once upon a time because people don’t believe that it can happen now. It always starts with once upon a time and ends with happily ever after. Most of the time, at least. This tale, however, does not start with once upon a time, it starts in the middle, or perhaps near the end. But you, dear reader, need the beginning, because people are like that. They need to know the start before they can understand the end. So, here we go, we’ll start how most fairy tales start. Once upon a time . . .</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Irisviel von Einzbern/Arturia Pendragon | Saber, Past Guinevere/Arturia Pendragon | Saber, Past Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Once Upon a Time . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy! Also, updates will probably be sporadic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Once upon a time, it’s the place where all the best fairy tales start. The ones with happy endings, the ones with dragons and princes and princesses and love at first sight. It always starts with once upon a time because people don’t believe that it can happen now. It always starts with once upon a time and ends with happily ever after. Most of the time, at least. This tale, however, does not start with once upon a time, it starts in the middle, or perhaps near the end. But you, dear reader, need the beginning, because people are like that. They need to know the start before they can understand the end. So, here we go, we’ll start how most fairy tales start. Once upon a time . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a king, truly, he was the best of kings. He was kind and benevolent and always put the kingdom before himself. He was the first line of defense for his people, and would sacrifice his life for theirs. He would do anything for them, and they loved him for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His name was King Arthur, and his castle was called Camelot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In his time, the world was, and technically it still is, a dangerous place. But this was a different type of danger then murderers and thugs, although those existed too. This type of danger came from warring armies and dangerous magical beasts, and for all his strength, King Arthur could not defend his people alone. So he created the Knights of the Round table and brought in a wizard named Merlin, and together they prevented Camelot’s fall. But for every glorious city, there is someone who wishes for its downfall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her name was Morgana.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Using her magic and her cunning, she created a facsimile of a human, someone who would be her puppet in Camelot’s court. A traitor with a poisoned knife meant for King Arthur’s back. But even puppets can feel, and this puppet grew to worship King Arthur and his dream, and turned his back on Morgana’s plans. He would not betray his King and the family he had chosen, but his creator would not be denied. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She used her magic to force her puppet into helping her, and by using him, she succeeded in cursing the King. She pulled King Arthur’s mind out of shape, drawing his darker thoughts to the surface and burying the bright ones. A twisted reflection of what King Arthur should be. A distorted image of what he was. Her King Arthur, her cursed King Arthur, would destroy everything in her name, and she would be Queen. She would rule over a barren world scorched by her own creation. She would be Queen over an empty land and would watch it in a castle with a tarnished reputation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But King Arthur’s knights and his court mage fought back, for they believed in their King's dream and not what he had become. Unfortunately, the knights were no match for King Arthur, and one by one they fell. But they bought enough time for Merlin to weave a spell of his own. Merlin cast Camelot and its inhabitants into limbo, a place where time has no hold, and tied Morgana’s fate to King Arthur’s. As long as King Arthur and Camelot stayed in limbo, Morgana could not escape. They would both be lost in the drift of time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So the story of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round table disappeared, until it was only mentioned in the oldest of texts and the rarest of myths. And eventually, those allusions disappeared as well. And time did what it always does, it moved on without Camelot and its people, without King Arthur and his knights, without Morgana and her plans for the world. But time also did what no other mage could, it weakened Merlin’s spell, nibbling at its edges as the centuries passed, and eventually, time will unravel the spell completely, hurtling King Arthur and his court back into the world and unleashing Morgana from her prison.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that time is coming soon . . .</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel von Einzbern looked up from her garden, wiping the sweat off her brow with one gloved hand. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the sky, gauging the time. Grandfather would be home soon. She got up, brushed off her skirt, and went inside to clean up. For some reason, Grandfather disliked it when she was dirty, he believed dirt was beneath her dignity, or more like it was beneath the dignity of the Einzbern family. Grandfather was stuck in a time when the Einzberns were actually something, not the poor family they were now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Irisviel really believed Grandfather when he started talking about how great the family had been. Not when there was no trace of wealth anywhere, not when Grandfather had been reduced to peddling and trading potions that didn’t work half the time. Greatness seemed a long way away from the simple country life she lived, but Grandfather still swore that their family had been great. Of course, she might have been more willing to believe him if he ever deigned to tell her where their supposed wealth went.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Irisviel came back out of the house, she had donned the clothes Grandfather preferred her to wear and had scrubbed the dirt from her skin. Her white hair had been taken out of its bun and now draped down her back in one long wave. She was a thing of snow and ice, of calm and tranquility, just like Grandfather wanted her to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sat on the porch, reading from one of the books she owned. It was an old book, worn and frayed, a book full of stories and adventures. What she wouldn’t give to be there, and not here, fighting dragons and saving lives. But she couldn’t. Adventures weren’t for simple country girls, they were for knights and dashing strangers, for princesses and mages, not for her. Nothing was meant for her but the life she lived now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cart drew up to the house, stopping right beside the gate, and Irisviel stood up, shaking out her skirt and bobbing a short curtsy. “Good day, Grandfather. Was your trip productive?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>An old man climbed out of the driver's seat of the carriage, his white hair and clothes were pristine, his face old and wrinkled. Grandfather. He said his clothes were to make him look dignified, that people trusted those who looked clean and pure. It was why he made her wear pale clothes, despite how easily stains set in. But Irisviel was certain that he wore those clothes because he wanted people to look at him as if he were some kind of mage. As if all his potions but one weren’t all false. “No.” He said, no hello, no good day, just business as always. “It was not. As expected, I’ll have to make another trip. I’m just here to collect supplies for the journey.” He eyed her, eyes piercing her, looking for flaws, and Irisviel wondered if she had dirt on her cheek or if her dress hadn’t been put on correctly. But no, he always looked at her like that, as if she was a flawed creation. “Did you take your tonic?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Grandfather.” Always the same questions. Always in the same brisk tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you go past the fence?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Grandfather.” Did he think she had a death wish?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmph, good.” He opened the gate and walked inside, shoulder brushing hers. For a second, the hard facade cracked and he stopped, his voice broken with age and exhaustion. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but be careful. Don’t leave the house, don’t talk to strangers, don’t get near anyone. There is supposedly a bounty hunter in the village, don’t let your curiosity get the best of and don’t leave to take a peak. There are enough here tonics to last you two weeks, if I’m gone for longer, make them yourself. I know you know how.” He hesitated, then whispered. “I know it’s hard, but it’s the only way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, Grandfather,” she murmured back, staring out in the direction of the village. They weren’t close enough to be considered part of it, but they were close enough to see the buildings. Briefly, she wondered what a bounty hunter would be like. Would he be dashing and charming? Or fearsome and brooding? It didn’t matter, because either way she would not see him. The thought made her throat close up. Oh how she wished, but wishes were for those who could afford them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good girl,” Grandfather murmured, before heading inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stood on the porch, feeling herself and the delusions she had built start to crack. They always did when Grandfather came home, because when he was home she could not live in her daydreams. She was not an adventure or a hero, but neither was she a simple country girl. She could not fight dragons, but she could not visit the tavern or market either. She was the girl who never left home, who never went past the gate, who didn’t have a future because it was too dangerous for her to do so. So she stood, staring hot eyed at the world she could not join, a colorless statue except for her vivid red eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How do you know when magic starts to fail? How do you know when a spell begins to unravel? Is it felt in a tremor in the ground? A sudden silence in a bird’s song? A stillness in the air as the world holds its breath? Is it felt in the raising of hair on both ear and neck? A sudden alertness that cannot be explained? A skipped heartbeat? Or is it different for each person who feels it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answer is that it can be felt in all of those things. It is a tremor in the ground, it is the silence of a bird’s song, it is a stillness in the air, it is the raising of hairs on both arm and neck, it is a sudden alertness, it is a skipped heart beat. It is all of those things and more, little things that nobody notices. A forest that was once normal darkens slightly. A witch that was once trapped tests her bonds. A king who once would have died to save the world waits to destroy it. A grandfather leaves his granddaughter behind once again. A young woman with no future prepares for another day in her cage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And someone who has been dreaming for a very long time finally opens his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Prince Was Cursed to Take the Form of a Beast . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh wow, people are reading this? Color me amazed. Anyway, thank you all for you're comments and kudos! And I am sorry for the long wait, I will try to get to the next chapter quicker then I got to this one.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jubstacheit von Einzbern, trader, alchemist, and grandfather, cursed violently as he inspected his horse, Justeaze. She had a lame foot, just as he feared. He stood, his back creaking with the effort, and patted her flank. “Well, old girl,” he growled, “This isn’t good.” Justeaze neighed softly in response, an obvious agreement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed deeply, looking around for anything that could help. It was a useless endeavor, night had fallen, and though Jubstacheit had traveled through these woods plenty of times, he was now completely lost. The plants were unfamiliar, twisted out of shape, and even the rocks looked wrong, as if some of them had been melted or shorn in half. There were wolves too, he could hear them howling in the distance. Hungry and no doubt waiting for a lone traveler and his horse. But what was missing was the clearing he should have encountered about an hour back. He knew that clearing, he camped there every time he traveled in this direction. Yet today, well tonight, it had disappeared. As if by magic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would have turned around and gone back, but the path was gone too, as if it had simply gotten up and walked away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was all very queer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then,” He grumbled, “We’ll unhook the wagon and leave it here. We have to find a safe spot before the wolves try to make a meal of us. Don’t we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze whinnied softly as in argument. She didn’t want to move, and who could blame her? The forest they were in was not the normal one, but something from nightmares and fairy tales. Dark and twisted and wrong, with monsters hiding behind every bend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” he snapped back as he unhooked the wagon from her harness, “Walking will make the foot worse. Do you have a better idea?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The horse whinnied again, this time in a more desolate tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jubstacheit took her reins in his hand and pulled his knife with the other. With difficulty, he scratched a mark in the bark of one of the trees. “This way girl, there seems to be a path. Let's hope it leads somewhere.” And there was a path, if it could be called a path. It was more like something large had pushed its way through the forest. Or burned it’s way though. Jubstacheit could have sworn that some of the bark looked scorched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They made their way through the woods slowly, avoiding rocks and roots and marking trees so they could find their way back to the cart and goods. As they continued, the path opened up, the ground growing softer, greener too. Moss with white flowers dotted the ground, and though the path opened up, the foliage became heavier. Thick vines hung from the trees like snakes, a violent contrast to the fragile moss on the ground. Jubstacheit cursed and pushed some of the vines away, and froze, mouth dropping at the sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because the sight was impossible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a garden, with crumbling walls and marble paths. The walls were overgrown with roses, white and pink ones with blooms as large as his head. The ground was tangled with flowers of other types too, types he had never seen before. Their leaves were a soft blue-green, the petals a pale pink, and they were numerous, growing between cracks of the path and peeking out between the thorny branches of the roses. It was beautiful chaos, a tangled mess of impossible color that obviously hadn’t been touched by a taming hand in years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And beyond that . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, his eyes were failing him. Surely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because beyond the wild garden was a castle, an old one by the look of it, with ivy covered stone and crumbling towers. The main portion of the castle seemed to be in good shape, and the sight left Jubstacheit reeling. Castle’s had stables, which meant shelter from both elements and ravenous wolves. If it was real, if he hadn’t hit his head on a branch and was suffering from some kind of hallucination. Or perhaps it was a dream, perhaps he was asleep in his camp in the clearing and was dreaming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the scent of the flowers reached his nose and he knew it was no dream. There was a shelter ahead, and perhaps even more. Who knew what treasures that castle could hold. Perhaps enough to rebuild the family's fortune, to give Irisviel the life she deserved. Irisviel . . . she would love those flowers. He could take some, keep them alive until he returned. She would be delighted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jubstacheit took a step forward through the curtain of vines, excitement building in his chest at the prospects that castle represented. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze, however, didn’t seem to share his excitement. Lame foot forgotten, she tossed her head and bucked, trying to break free of his grip. He turned back and whispered, “Shh, shh girl. It’s fine, it’s safe.” Slowly, he calmed her, stroking her nose and murmuring in her ears, but her eyes still rolled with panic. Jubstacheit dug in his pocket for a scrap of cloth, and wrapped it around her head, covering her eyes. “Come on girl,” he murmured, stepping into the garden. She followed hesitantly, nostrils flaring. Around them, the flowers waved in a gentle breeze, faces turned to the full moon above.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hairs on Jubstacheit’s neck rose, because there was no breeze, and the night was a half moon, not a full one. Yet the flowers still danced and spun and the moon’s light still spilled silver onto the plants around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He picked up his pace slightly, and Justeaze bucked again, screaming with fear. He let go of the reins and backed up quickly, wary of flailing hooves. “It’s okay, it’s okay, there’s nothing here!” Beneath his feet the stones crunched, in the sky, clouds covered the moon, casting the wild garden into shadows. The flowers continued their frantic dance, somehow still as pale and silver stained as they had been before the moon was covered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But there is, intruder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jubstacheit froze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been a while since we’ve had visitors. Which are you? Friend or foe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voice was cold, emotionless, each syllable clipped and sharp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your inability to answer tells me all I need to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jubstacheit jolted into motion, spinning and raising his hands to ward off whatever was coming his way, his mouth opening to proclaim his innocence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t get the chance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Today was the third day since Grandfather had left, and Irisiviel was in the garden again, weeding. It was summer, so there was always weeding to be done. Not that Irisiviel minded, weeding gave her the excuse she needed to stay in the sun. She tended to burn easily, so Grandfather preferred her to stay inside on sunny days. But there was always weeding, so they had compromised. Irisviel could go outside as long as she made sure to keep herself covered on sunny days. She wore large hats and didn’t stay out long when the sun was too fierce and that was that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel reached further into the bush, gloved fingers scraping the base of the plant she was trying to reach while the leaves of the bush tickled her cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miss Irisviel! Miss Irisviel!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighed and pulled back. She could get the darned thing out later, the milk boy was here. Toby was one of the kids her Grandfather had hired to bring her supplies from the village. He was an excitable boy, and was always the highlight of Irisviel’s day. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t as sour as Grandfather. She stood, shaking out her skirts and adjusting her hat before turning and smiling at the boy. “Good day to you, too, Toby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Toby leaned on the gate, peeking over and grinning at her. “I’ve got your milk!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would hope so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I also have a guess!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a game between the children who brought supplies. They wanted to know why she didn’t go pass the gate, so they made up stories to fill in the blanks. Whomever got closest to the truth would win. “Go ahead.” Irisviel said, chuckling slightly. So far she had been a witch, a fallen angel, and a lost princess. It was delightful to listen to the stories the children came up with, to imagine her life as if they were true.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re,” Toby paused to build suspense, “a vampire.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Toby Tanner, what would your parents say if they heard you accusing a perfectly respectable woman of being a vampire? Do I look like a blood sucking monster to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Toby’s grin was unrepentant. “White hair, white skin, red eyes. Whenever it’s sunny you’re always wearing that silly hat of yours, and you never leave the premises, at least during the day. I bet you don’t leave because if you do, you risk the chance of somebody breaking in and discovering your coffin!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed, easing out of her stance and shaking her head. “No, I’m not a vampire. Jenna’s still the closest to the mark.” Jenna had guessed that Irisviel didn’t leave because she had a paralyzing fear of crowds. It was relatively tame compared to most of the guesses, and therefore was the closest to the truth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aww,” Toby pouted before pushing himself off the gate and walking backwards back to the village. “I guess that’s all then, see ya in a few days Miss Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel bit her lip, then rushed towards the gate, grabbing the wood in both hands and leaning over. “Wait! Please, Toby, can you tell me about the bounty hunter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Toby stopped retreating and ran back over, stopping at a respectable distance and bouncing on his toes. “Yeah! Which one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was more than one? “Both, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well . . . they’re from very far away and they both dress in really dark armor. And they have sooooo many weapons, crossbows, swords, and knives. The man let some of us play with this really tiny blow gun before the woman got on him about that. Something about how weapons aren’t toys. They’re both pretty fit and we get to watch them spar occasionally. They’re both really good! The man seems better with ranged weapons while the woman seems better with the sword. The man’s really friendly! He’s got these dead eyes but he loves talking to us! But the woman’s really distant and cold. He was telling us about this hunt they did up in this big city for some guy that was cutting up-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, Toby, I think that’s enough!” Irisviel held up her hands, wincing slightly at the flood of information. “You better get back before your parents start to worry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay Miss Irisviel! Bye!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodbye!” She watched him go, his feet pounding on the dirt. She smiled and shook her head, before unlatching the gate and picking up the container of milk bottles. So much information, her head ached trying to process it all. Oh she wished, how she wished . . . but wishing did nothing. So she took the milk back inside and then continued with her weeding.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was a knock at the gate, loud and impatient. Irisviel, who was now working on the mending, looked up and frowned slightly at the sight in front of her. There was a woman at the gate, an unfamiliar woman with a dark iron breastplate and dark leathers. Her dark hair was cut short at the chin, her grey eyes locked on Irisviel’s form. She carried weapons on her, a crossbow over her shoulder, a quiver and sword on her hips, there were probably more Irisviel couldn’t see. And in her hands she held the reins to -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Justeaze!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel jumped up, clothes and thread spilling from her lap, and rushed down off the porch, halting at the gate. “That’s my Grandfather’s horse!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She came to town not long ago, my partner and I discovered her while we were on our rounds. She came out of the woods, so I assume your Grandfather must still be in them.” The woman's voice was calm, controlled and for the briefest moment Irisviel wondered how she had known the horse belonged to her family, then she realized the townsfolk must have told her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel froze, “But, what could have happened? Grandfather’s been traveling through those woods for years. He knows them like the back of his hand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman shrugged, “If it’s any consolation, it’s most likely not the bandits we are looking for, they would have taken the horse. It’s also probably not wolves, she was released from her harness, she did not break free from it. It is very likely that your grandfather is alive, though for how long I do not know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Irisveil was left stranded, her mind reeling. Grandfather’s trips sometimes lasted longer than they should have, but he always came back. He always came back. “I . . .” her voice trailed off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman’s eyes softened slightly, and her voice grew a trace warmer. “My partner has already agreed to keep a watch out for him on our patrols.” Then her voice grew hard again, “But our assignment with the bandits takes priority. Good day, ma’am.” She held out Justeaze’s reins and Irisviel took them in numb fingers. The woman took a step back, bowed, then left, covering the ground in quick strides. From the edges of the wood, a figure separated from the shadows. He and the woman exchanged a few words, and then they headed towards the town.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaving Irisviel alone with only the horse for company.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel wasn’t sure how long she had stood there for, her mind frozen and reeling, her body refusing to move except to take in deep, shuddering breaths. Justeaze broke her out of her trance, neighing softly as she nudged Irisviel’s hat. Irisviel’s hand went up immediately to steady it, and her paralyzed horror was immediately shattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grandfather.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grandfather was out there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Potentially hurt or lost or something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had to help him. Somehow she had to help him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But how.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Justeaze whinnied, and Irisviel eyed her, then tied her to the gate. “Stay here girl,” she said, taking a step towards the house. “I’ll be right back.” She laughed, a trace hysterically, “I’m insane.” Then she turned and fled to the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was she thinking? She had never ridden a horse before, or traveled through the woods, or sought a missing person. She never stepped foot past the gate! Sometime during the days of solitude her mind had cracked, straight through, but what else could she do? The bounty hunter, oh why had Toby not mentioned her name, had said that they had to remain focused on the bandits. It could be too late for Grandfather by the time they found him!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel grabbed a satchel from the workroom and started packing. What would she need? Food was obvious. As was extra clothes. And the tonic. The tonic. Irisviel could feel a panic bubble in her throat. She had eleven vials left. That was how long she could search. Eleven days. Eleven days before . . . before . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cursed and ran outside, satchel heavy at her side. She stopped when she saw Justeaze, nibbling at her reins. Justeaze. The horse hadn’t been fed or been given water or been taken care of. She would have to take care of her first. She walked to the gate, her hand hovering over the latch, before taking a deep breath and opening it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stepped into the real world for the first time in years, reaching over to untie Justeaze from the gate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was unreal. It couldn’t be real, it had to be a dream. Just another one of her dreams where she gained the chance to explore the world. To have adventures and live a real life. The knot in her chest eased, and her second step was more sure. That was right, it was just a dream, so why not see where it would lead her?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But why, if it was just a dream, did she feel like crying?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. He and the Inhabitants of His Castle Were Forgotten . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Woah! This got done slightly faster then the previous chapter. Yay me! Also, I would like to say thank you for all the comments and kudos. You guys are awesome and I hope you have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thankfully, Justeaze was an easy horse to ride, patient with Irisviel’s unsteady seat on her back. But then again, Irisviel had only been riding her for the few moments it took to get to the woods, so there really wasn’t a whole lot of time for her to mess up. However, there would be plenty of opportunities in the future. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared into the dark woods, reins held loosely in her hands, and gulped. “You know what, I’m not going to risk it.” She slipped off Justeaze's back and onto the ground. She wobbled slightly on impact, but managed to keep her balance. She looked at Justeaze apologetically and then gave her a small smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The horse gave her a look. It was a very unimpressed look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel patted her nose softly. “I’ve never ridden before,” she protested, “even if this is a dream, I don’t want to fall off. But you can lead me, you know the path you took.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze flicked an ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Irisviel murmured, tears pricking the edges of her eyes, “He’s all I have. Dream or not, I need to find him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The horse snorted, then started walking forwards. With a small, relieved sigh, Irisviel followed, leaving her old life behind her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh no.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Said a voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“No no no no no. This won’t do at all. Why, of all the people in the world, does the first person to come knocking on the door have to be someone with an untrustworthy face? My work is never done.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Complaining. The voice was complaining. Which was odd, because if anyone was in a situation where complaining was acceptable, it was  . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jubstacheit’s eyes snapped open, which was a good sign because his last memory was of a sword coming down at his head. The stone he was laying on was cold, the air he was breathing musty, the area around him dark. Still, he was alive, so he had a chance. A chance to get out. A chance to get back to Irisviel. Also, there was the matter of the complaining voice. Slowly, Jubstacheit pushed himself up, looking around for the owner of the voice. But he was alone. “Hello?” He called, his voice shaky. He tried to stand up fully, and something rattled. He felt around and his fingers touched cold metal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chains. His foot was chained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are awake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jubstacheit froze. He knew that voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. I was half afraid I had cracked open your skull.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That cold, emotionless voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t kill me!” He said into the darkness, eyes darting around for the owner of that voice. “I have a family, a granddaughter. If anything happens to me-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something shifted in the darkness. “I do not care about your family. I care about how you found my castle.” His eyes were adjusting, he could make out forms now. It looked like he was in some kind of cell, and there was a person standing outside the bars. They looked small, slim, but their eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “Well, answer me, stranger. How did you get here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got lost,” Jubstacheit stuttered, “the woods, they had changed, and my horse had a lame foot. I needed to find shelter before the wolves came, so I followed a path and found myself here. Please, you have to believe me!” He was begging now, his normal calm facade cracked to pieces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do not have to do anything.” The person fell silent, regarding him with those glowing eyes. “One part of your story holds true, at least. Your horse had a lame foot.” Had. Past tense. Jubstacheit felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Just how long had he been here? Was Irisviel okay? He swallowed hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do not worry.” The person continued, their voice still flat and cold. “I am not completely heartless.” They paused, as if considering their words, then continued on. “I have treated your horse and sent her on her way. Now, it is your turn. You are a trespasser at least, and a thief if given a chance. At most, you are a scout for an invading force. I think rotting in this cell is a fitting punishment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some part of the fear in Jubstacheit broke and shifted into fury. “Are you insane?! I’m an old man! I have a granddaughter to take care of! How could I be a scout for an invading force? I didn’t even know that a castle existed here until however long ago it has been since I stumbled upon it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a shift in the air and Jubstacheit fell back as light filled the cell. But it was not light, not really, it was energy. Red and black energy that sheathed a very familiar sword as it pointed at him through the bars of his cell. And for the first time Jubstacheit caught sight of his captors face. He paled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The eyes that stared down at him were cold, as if he was some kind of bug instead of a human being. The face was blank, shadows cast by the dark energy dancing on the pale skin. The words were angry, but the tone was flat. “You are a prisoner, and you dare raise your voice to me? I am King of this castle, and I know very well what appearances may hide within. I would kill you now for the insults you have thrown in my direction, but I am, if anything, true to my word. You will rot here, forever. And when you are nothing but bones and cloth, I might debate leaving you in the garden so your empty sockets can stare at what you thought you could take from me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, just like that, the sword and the monster wielding it was gone, and Jubstacheit was left alone in the darkness.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze stopped in a small clearing, and Irisviel looked around nervously, one hand clutching the strap of her satchel tightly, the other resting on Justeaze’s flank. Although sunlight streamed through the canopy above, none of the warm rays graced the ground beneath Irisviel’s feet. The trees were standard horror story trees, and even the rocks looked as if they were trying to fit the theme.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Irisviel hadn’t believed her surroundings were a dream already, then she would have started believing it now. Her surroundings were simply too stereotypical of a dark, magical forest to be anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, Justeaze.” Irisviel said, “Grandfather isn’t here.” The cart certainly was, but there was no sign of her grandfather.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze gave her a look. It was a look that, even on a horse's face, Irisviel could easily interpret as “Well, duh.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel left Justeaze’s flank and started looking around for any sign of her grandfather’s passing. “Cart, check.” She murmured, “ Grandfather, no check. Grandfather’s hints,” her hand grazed over a mark in one of the trees, “Check?” She peered closer at the mark. “Is this just me? Or does this mark seem older than a few days?” She shrugged and stepped back, “Oh well, it’s the only lead we have.” Now that she was looking, she could see the path through the trees. Grandfather must have gone that way. After all, it was the only way he could have went. Irisviel had no doubt that when she turned around, the path that led up to this place would be gone. It was dream logic, and if Irisviel knew anything, it was the logic of dreams and stories.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her footsteps were the only sound in the forest as she started down the path, and she turned around to stare at Justeaze. The horse was standing resolutely by the cart. “What do you think you’re doing?” The horse said nothing, not even a neigh, and Irisviel sighed in barely contained annoyance. “Come on. If Grandfather is injured, I’m going to need you to carry him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze glared at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel glared back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, slowly, Justeaze crept her way, head lowered and ears back. “It will be okay,” Irisviel murmured softly, “I won’t let anything hurt you.” Slowly, with lots of coaxing, Irisviel managed to get Justeaze to follow her down the path.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was obvious that something had terrified the horse previously, and whatever had terrified her lay ahead. It was either that, or the general atmosphere of the place, or a combination of both. Irisviel figured it was probably a combination of both. Even though she knew it was a dream, she was starting to get a couple chills down her spine as well. But she didn’t focus on those chills, she focused on the fact that her Grandfather was most likely ahead, and that this was probably the most realistic dream she had had in awhile. “Look, Justeaze,” she murmured to the poor horse, who was now shaking with each step, “There’s moss on the ground. Things are finally looking up. Now, I bet that beyond these trees there will be a castle, that’s normally what happened in stories and dreams. It’s either a cottage or a castle, and I’m getting a ca-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel soothing babbling stopped as soon as she glimpsed what was in front of her. Yes, there was a castle, a crumbling castle whose main building was in pretty good shape for something that was obviously very old. And yes, though it had been daytime previously, it was obviously night time here, with a glorious full moon above. But most importantly, there was a garden. A garden full of roses and a type of flower Irisviel had never seen before. A garden full of beauty and wild chaos.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A garden full of weeds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel’s eye twitched slightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a lovely garden, yes, but it had obviously been let loose and was overgrown. There were those beautiful, unnameable, flowers in the rose patch. Those same roses clung to the crumbling wall for support, as they should because without that support they would have fallen over and uprooted themselves. But most of all, there were weeds. No doubt her grandfather would not have been able to tell the difference between a flower and a weed, but for Irisviel, whose gardening was one of her many ways to escape her reality, the difference was stark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She clapped her hands together and sighed. “Justeaze, I get why you were so scared.” The horse gave her another one of those looks. “This garden is in absolute chaos! Look at those roses! The blooms are lovely, but there is mold on the leaves on one of them. And if there's mold on one, there is mold on the others as well. And only two types of flower, highly unlikely. No gardener worth their salt would have only two types of flowers. It is those,” she pointed at the dancing flowers with their soft petals and green-blue leaves. “I bet those completely out competed all of the other flowers. Look at them, they’re currently laying siege to the roses.” She itched to grab her gloves and get to work. The garden obviously needed it, but her grandfather took precedence. She patted Justeaze on the flank lightly. “Stay here girl, I’ll be back with Grandfather in tow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Irisviel stepped into the mess of a garden, headed straight towards the crumbling castle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The front door was closed, the dark wood a solid barrier. Irisviel stared at it before knocking. “Hello? Grandfather?” Nothing. She knocked again, this time harder, and the door cracked open, sending shafts of moonlight spilling into the interior. For a second she stared at her hand before shrugging and stepping inside. Dream logic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?” She asked again, her voice echoing in the dark room. “Alright then,” she muttered, “I need light. There has to be a candlestick somewhere.” She started moving along the wall, hands padding the air around her as she searched. She would have preferred going straight down the hall, but the moonlight would stop illuminating sometime, and something told her that it would be a very bad idea to not have something akin to a weapon in her hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Justeaze’s nerves were infectious, it seemed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel’s hand hit something cold and metal, and she almost shrieked before realizing that it wasn’t anything to be worried about. It was, in fact, a candlestick. With a relieved sigh, she grabbed it and retreated back to where the moonlight eliminated some of the room's contours. She set in on the ground and started searching through her bag. Matches, she had matches, right? She was sure she had packed matches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah! Here we go!.” A few seconds of fumbling later, three tiny flames were flaring brightly, giving off soft halos of light. She packed up the matches and stood up, clasping the base of the candlestick and holding it a lot in one hand. “Grandfather!” She called, “Are you here?” The silence was absolute, and with a nervous gulp, Irisviel stepped forwards. “Grandfather?” She called again as the darkness closed around her, the only solace the light in her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or was it? Was it her imagination, or was the room getting brighter? Or perhaps her eyes were adjusting. “Grandfather? Grandfather, where are y - oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stopped and stared, the light from her candlestick playing across wooden balustrades. In front of her was a staircase, a grand one that split in two directions towards the upper level. And above that split was a painting, a large one, and it was definitely lighter in here because she could make it out. The portrait was of two people. One had been completely ripped through, the canvas charred and peeling. The only hint that someone had been there was a gauntlet covered hand resting lightly on the pale, elegant hand of the woman. The woman had been untouched by the elements or whatever had destroyed her partner. Her clear green eyes stared down at Irisviel warmly, her red lips stretched into a tiny, welcoming smile. Freckles dotted her cheeks and pale shoulders, her dress was a rich green with gold embroidery that clung to her form and draped across her knees. Her dark brown hair fell in waves across her back and shoulders, and a small gold crown graced her brow. Everything about her gave off a warm, welcoming feeling, and Irisviel could feel her own smile stretch across her lips in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something clanged, loudly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel twisted around, eyes darting towards the darkness. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Nothing. “Grandfather?” This time, a distant sound, further away. She was sure she had read this in a book before, but it didn’t matter. If the sounds lead her to her grandfather, she would follow them. With one last glance at the woman in the portrait, she was off.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sounds led her down, and Irisviel was very glad for her candlestick, because whatever had lighted up the main hall had not seen fit to grace the lower levels. She was pretty sure that she was being led to the dungeons, though what her grandfather would be doing in the dungeons, she didn’t know. Then again, if this was really a dream, then her grandfather would have been put in the dungeons by a monster of some sort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel wasn’t sure she was ready to face a monster, real or otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stopped for a second, hand resting against the wall, and took in a deep breath. She needed it. She wasn’t used to all this activity, not really. It was a miracle that she had made it this far. After another deep breath, she continued on, her footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. She felt very small, and very, very alone. “Grandfather?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time there was an answer. “Irisviel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel froze, one hand clamped over her mouth. The voice was faint, and tired, and broken, but it was definitely her grandfather. “Grandfather!” She rushed forwards, feet tripping over uneven stones. “Grandfather, where are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” his voice was a dry rasp, “Irisviel get out of here!” But it was too late, she had collapsed beside his cell, the candlestick placed to one side, her pale fingers wrapped around the grimy bars.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She could see him, and the sight hurt. Her grandfather, normally so controlled, was shaken. His clothes were a mess, his hair in disarray, his face covered in mud and bruises. But his red eyes were fierce. He reached out one hand and Irisviel slipped her hand through the bars to grab it. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice hard and flinty. “You have to go. Now. A monster walks these halls, Irisviel, and if she catches you, she will kill you. Or worse, she will throw you in here with me.” He didn’t have to say that would be as good as death. “Leave me. Save yourself.” His mask cracked slightly, and tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes. “I love you, my Irisviel. I love you so much, and I am so, so sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt like crying herself, “I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How touching.” Said a voice, and Irisviel felt a shiver crackle down her spine. “It will not get you anywhere.” Every word was sharp, certain, clearly pronounced and as cold as ice. Irisviel’s grandfather’s face paled, his eyes widening and filled with fear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel turned slowly, extracting her hand from her grandfather’s grip and holding them up in a sign of peace. She stared at the woman in front of her, swallowing the feeling of wrongness that emanated from her. The woman was small and slight and wore a dark black and silver dress. Her skin and hair were pale, but not like Irisviel’s pure white, but tainted slightly. The hair had just a tinge of yellow, and that along with the pale yellow eyes gave the woman a sickly, unhealthy look. But despite all of that, the hand that held the black and red long sword pointed in her direction was steady.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel gulped slightly, then bowed her head. “Uh . . . hello. I’m Irisviel von Einzbern. It’s nice to meet you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least this one has manners.” The woman said in that curiously flat voice. Irisviel had thought the bounty hunter had been emotionless, but it was nothing compared to this woman’s monotone. It was as if she wasn’t human, but a puppet or a doll.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it was terribly rude of me to barge in, and I am very sorry.” Diplomacy seemed to be working so far. Irisviel bit her lip and looked up at the woman with pleading eyes. “And I am sure my grandfather is very sorry as well. So if you could please let us go, it would be very appreciated.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman’s face didn’t soften, didn’t flinch. “Demands? Right when we first meet? Amusing. However, you have trespassed into my castle, and therefore are subject to my rules. Your Grandfather is a trespasser, and would have been a thief. Therefore, he shall rot. You will rot beside him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“NO!” Grandfather yelled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Silence.” The woman said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Irisviel murmured, the wheels in her mind turning. If they were both locked up, they would be locked up forever with no chance to escape. If one of them was locked up, then there was a better chance that the other could get help. Irisviel couldn’t go into the village, but Grandfather could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, this was just a dream. What happened here had no real impact on her life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked up at the yellow eyed woman and gave her best and brightest smile. “Surly you haven’t made up your mind yet? You haven’t heard my deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman’s eyebrow twitched a fraction. “Deal? Normally, I would have your head for daring to bargain with me. However, you have shown bravery, so I will allow you the chance to speak.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel, no.” Grandfather said, his voice shaking. “Don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Irisviel had already chosen her path, so she stood despite the sword pointed at her neck and curtsied towards the woman. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold the curtsey, but she would try to hold it as long as possible. “I offer a trade. My Grandfather’s life for mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?” Another twitch of her eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt a bead of sweat on her brow, but ignored it. “My Grandfather is old and frail, and not suited for rough treatment. I however, am. You are royalty, yes?” She had said the castle was hers. “Well, I can help around, clean up and the like so you don’t have to lower yourself to such a menial chore. Also, your garden, I couldn’t help but notice that it is terribly out of order. I’m a fair hand at gardens, and I am certain, given enough time, that I will be able to fix it up.” Irisviel peeked at the woman, but her face had barely shifted. “Also, I can cook!” It was a last ditch effort, but finally a reaction, the slightest widening of the woman's eyes. She’s found a weakness, and she would pound that in. “Royalty should not cook for themselves, so I can cook for you! I am a fair hand in the kitchen, and though it might take me awhile to learn some of the fancier things, I am certain I will be able to!” The woman’s face was smooth again. “Please,” Irisviel murmured, and a couple tears spilled over her cheeks, “Grandfather is the only person I have left. I will do anything to keep him safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the woman chuckled. It was an oddly hollow chuckle, as if she was only doing it to show that she found Irisviel’s words amusing, but was somehow not amused herself. “How brave,” she said, “to offer your life for your grandfather’s. How admirable.” She stopped and evaluated Irisviel before nodding slowly. “Yes, this might work. I accept your deal.” The sword in her hand disappeared with barely a shimmer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel turned and looked at her Grandfather. He was staring at her with wide, horrified eyes. “No.” He breathed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine.” Until her tonics ran out, at least. Still, she gave her grandfather a gentle smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman grabbed Irisviel’s arm in one hand and wrenched the door of the cell open with the other. Her grip was hard, and cold too, and once again Irisviel was reminded of a doll, because this woman did not have a human’s warmth. The woman dragged her in, then tossed her onto the floor of the cell. Irisviel gasped in pain as she went skidding across the hard stone, skirts ripping and her skin scraping. It hurt, it hurt a lot, and Irisviel was certain that she was about to wake up and discover she had fallen on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she didn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Irisviel realized far too late that this wasn’t a dream, but reality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman didn’t seem to care that Irisviel had been hurt, instead, she remained focused on Irisviel’s grandfather. Her sword, once again in her hand, shot through the air and cleaved the chains in half. She hauled Grandfather up and looked in Irisviel’s direction. Irisviel searched the woman’s eyes desperately for anything, a spark of emotion, a shift in their gaze, but they were blank and unreadable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grandfather was fighting, but it was obvious he could not match the small woman’s strength. “Irisviel!” He cried as he was dragged out of the cell, one hand reaching out towards his granddaughter. Irisviel stared at him with watering eyes and gave a small wave. The door of the cell was closed with such force that dust fell from the ceiling, but Irisviel could still see her grandfather being dragged away by the woman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was alone in the dungeons of a castle that belonged to a puppet that didn’t even try to play at being human. In eleven days, her tonics would run out, and then . . . and then . . . she closed her eyes, and softly, Irisviel von Einzbern began to weep.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. One Day, a Man Stumbled Upon a Castle in the Woods . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thank you all for your comments and kudos! Hope you all have a good day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The woman who had once been the girl named Artoria, but had been known for much of her life as King Arthur, and was now simply referred to as the King, dragged the old man up the stairs, uncaring of how many scrapes and bruises he collected as he bounced on each step. If someone looked in her eyes just then, they might have said she looked disdainful. But disdain was an emotion, so they would have been wrong. The King did not feel. The King had no heart in which to feel.</p><p>Not anymore.</p><p>Which was why the hushed whispers that followed her wake were all the more surprised. “The King is releasing the prisoner!” “What about the white haired woman?” “Where is Lancelot?” “Somebody tell Bedivere, he needs to know.” “Agraiven, don’t forget Agraiven.” “Ugh, I hate telling Agraiven things.” “Stop complaining, it’s not knightly.” “What is going on?” “What happened down there?”</p><p>The King ignored these whispers, seemingly unconcerned about the unknown sources of the many voices. But Jubstacheit, who had been pleading with the King to reconsider, froze, his mouth a shocked o. “What?” Where were the voices coming from? There was no one here but him, the King, and Irisviel in the cell downstairs.<br/>“Quiet,” the King said, “All of you. Any who question my decisions will be destroyed.”</p><p>Silence was immediate, and even Jubstacheit’s tongue stuck to the top of his mouth.</p><p>Once upon a time, when the King was known as King Arthur, she would have been horrified by the threats that now rolled so easily off her tongue. But now the truth had been revealed to her. Dissent was not to be tolerated. Treachery was not to be tolerated. Any questioning voice would be silenced. It was her job to lead, and their job to follow. Not to question, not to wonder, just to follow. If they could not do that, then she had no use for them.</p><p>Simple as that. The way a kingdom should be.</p><p>The King dragged Jubstacheit outside, pulling him along the stones and flowers with ease despite her small stature. He was frozen now, the shock and horror on his face clear. The King did not look at him, her eyes were fixed forwards, towards the horse that stood skittishly by the woods. If she had a heart, it might have melted, or at least softened. Such a brave thing, to face the woods around Camelot again and again for her foolish masters. Just like the woman in the dungeons, so brave in the face of danger. But she didn’t have a heart, so it did not soften, and even if those thoughts did cross her mind, they were mere observations.</p><p>“Here you are,” she said, unceremoniously dropping Jubstacheit by his horse. “Leave this place at once. Do not return.”</p><p>“No, you don’t understand.” Jubstacheit cried, his petrified fear shattering, his red eyes wide with panic, his voice pleading. “Irisviel will, please, she will-”</p><p>“I do not care,” the King said, her eyes unfeeling. She flexed her fingers and felt the hilt of Excalibur take form against her palm. Once it was a holy sword, beautiful with its blue and gold accents. Now, it was darkened, a shadow of its former glory, just like it’s owner. The two were linked, they always had been. Artoria and Excalibur. Excalibur and King Arthur. The thing that was once King Arthur and the thing that was once Excalibur.  “Go.”</p><p>Jubstacheit scrambled onto his horse, his eyes hot, and without another word he wheeled his horse around and they trotted into the trees. The King watched him go, face expressionless. He would be back, she knew that. He would be back with an army at his heels. That would be fine, her knights may no longer be in fighting shape, but she herself was enough for any army. They would all fall. Their body’s would fertilize the ground and become a warning for anyone else who would dare threaten Camelot.</p><p>His granddaughter would weep.</p><p>That was not her problem.</p><p>The King turned back to her castled and marched down the path, ignoring the dancing flowers that waved for her attention.</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>“Please, my lady, do not cry.”</p><p>A voice in the darkness, deep and soft and cultured. Irisviel looked up, brushing her hair out of her voice, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes scanned her cell and the hallway beyond for whomever had spoken. There was nobody there, and briefly, she wondered if she was going mad. But the mad didn’t feel pain when trapped in their delusions, did they? How was she supposed to know? “Hello?”</p><p>The light around bobbed and shifted, as if someone had taken the candlestick she had used earlier and was waving it about. “Here, I am here. And please, do not scream.”</p><p>Irisviel turned and looked, nobody. There was nobody there. “I-”</p><p>“Down, look down.”</p><p>Irisviel looked down. There was the candlestick, it’s three flames wavering with a draft. One of the arms gave a little wave. “Here I am, my lady.”</p><p>Irisviel shrieked, scrambling back until her back hit the wall. The candlestick slumped. The talking candlestick slumped. The talking candlestick, which she had picked up and lit and carried around, slumped. Irisviel placed a hand over her mouth, smothering the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. Perhaps she was mad after all.</p><p>The candlestick spoke again, voice worried. “My apologies, my lady, I didn't mean to startle you.”</p><p>“No, no, no,” Irisviel murmured between her fingers, “I shouldn’t have screamed. I just wasn’t expecting a talking . . .” Her voice trailed off, the impossibility of the situation clear. But still, that was no reason to be rude, was it? “I’m sorry, who are you? I don’t think I caught your name.”</p><p>“I am,” the candlestick hesitated, “Lancelot. Just Lancelot.”</p><p>“Well, Lancelot, could you please tell me what is going on here?”</p><p>The candlestick hesitated again, “I am afraid I am unable too. The one who would most aptly be able to describe this situation will contact you later. For now, it would be best to get you out of here.”</p><p>“Oh,” the noise she made was small, too small to express the ridiculousness of the situation. The talking candlestick, whose name was apparently Lancelot, was going to get her out of her cell, somehow. Also,he  apparently couldn’t tell her what was going on. Irisviel wasn’t sure what to do, what to say, so she stood, shaking off her skirts and checking her satchel to make sure none of her vials had broken. None had, and the sensation of relief was sharp and immediate. Her hysteria was almost smothered now, she could have her breakdown later. When she was alone. Or perhaps she was in shock? That seemed likely. “Okay then,” she looked at the candlestick again, “can you tell me who will tell me what's going on?”</p><p>“I'm afraid I am not allowed to, the King has forbidden us to speak his name. But may I applaud such a wonderful display of bravery? There are not many who are willing to go against the King,” his voice became dark and bitter, “especially as she is now. It is,” another pause, “admirable.” </p><p>There was something in his voice, perhaps that bitterness, perhaps the melancholy in it, that told Irisviel that this . . . candlestick’s . . . story was complicated. Especially with the King. Which meant that woman, that doll, was the King. It was too much, too much at once. For a second, she thought she would faint. But no, now was not the time. Later, when she was safe. “Uh, thank you, Lancelot. Um, how are you going to get me out of here? You are . . .” She stopped. The fact he was a candlestick was obvious. </p><p>“As with the King,” and once again his voice bitter, “Things are not always as they appear.” The candlestick wrapped his arms around the bars of the door, and very, very slowly, pulled back. The door made a shrieking sound as he tugged, and the door swung very slowly open, just wide enough for Irisviel to slide through. The candlestick stopped, panting hard, or at least he gave the impression of panting hard. “I am not as strong as I once was, but this is within my capabilities.” He bowed low, his flames bobbing with the movement. “My lady?”</p><p>“Uh, thank you.” Irisviel slid through the gap, and looked around. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for exactly, but perhaps it wasn’t looking for so much as looking away. Away from the talking candlestick named Lancelot who could open the heavy cell door. No, she couldn’t think about that, she needed to focus, otherwise she really was going to faint. “What next?”</p><p>“We go upstairs, and we get you a room.” He said, “You are the first human to come here in . . .” he trailed off again, “Well, it has been a very long time. Come on.” He turned and started hopping down the hallway.</p><p>Irisviell felt oddly lost, though that might have been the shock. Then again, she was sure anyone else would be lost in this situation as well. After a second, she followed behind him, watching the firelight play erratically across the walls. “Would you like me to pick you up? We might make better progress that way.”</p><p>“No,” his voice was sharp, “I am fine.”</p><p>“Uh, okay then.”</p><p>Together, the candlestick and the woman walked down the hallway, towards the stairs and the world above.</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>After disposing of the trash, the King made her way to her office, sitting behind the large oak desk that dominated the room. The chair was functional, so was the desk and the room. The whole thing was almost too functional, as if it was used sparingly or never. There was nothing to make the room comfortable, it was simply a place to work. The desk though, was covered with papers. These papers were well organized and in neat stacks, some that had obviously not been touched yet. Even though the kingdom was stuck in limbo, the work never stopped. Always, always working. It was what the King was supposed to do, and as King, she would complete her task. She reached out and picked up the quill in the inkwell, placing it on the first page.</p><p>“My king,” the pen said, “What shall be done with the woman in the dungeons?”</p><p>“That is a matter for my knights. As long as she does her job, where she sleeps is none of my concern.” No doubt Lancelot would already be on it. She had seen him, standing there where the white haired woman had placed him. Something that might have been fury or sadness rose at the thought of her best knight, but it wasn’t. She was unfeeling. She should have disposed of the traitorous candlestick earlier, as law dictated. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, and she didn’t know why.</p><p>No, she knew why. He had given Guinevere what she had been unable to give her. He had given her happiness, a devotion that King Arthur could not. It was for that reason she didn’t dismember him. He had brought both good and bad with his adulterous ways. If he betrayed her again she would cut him down with no hesitation, but something told her he wouldn’t.</p><p>Besides, she needed him. He was her best knight. Candlestick or not, he would be useful in the battles to come. </p><p>“Her name is Irisviel,” she said, her voice as blank as ever. “You will use it, Agraiven.” She said it without thinking, but somehow it seemed important. She was King, she should at least remember the name of the only other person in this castle to have hands.</p><p>The quill in her hand shook slightly. “It is unusual for you to focus on the name of a servant, my king.”</p><p>The King clenched her hand around the quill and it hissed in pain. “Do not question me. Seneschal or not, you are replaceable.”</p><p>“Of course my king.” The voice was meek, the slight trace of resentment buried.</p><p>“Now, what will we be working on today?”</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>Irisviel stared at the gathering that awaited her and Lancelot in the main hall. There were dusters and cutlery, furniture and decorations and more, all led by a very stout, very annoyed looking clock. “Lancelot,” said the clock, “would you tell me what the hell is going on? The castle has been abuzz with rumors since your descent into the dungeon.” There was something in the clock’s voice that led Irisviel to believe that the clock wasn’t very happy with the candlestick at the moment.</p><p>“Sir Gawain,” Lancelot said, “Please watch your language, you are in the presence of a lady.” His voice was morose, as if the very presence of the clock bothered him. Perhaps the dislike was mutual?</p><p>Irisviel raised a hand, fighting back the darkness that threatened to claim her. Talking clocks and candlesticks, doll-like Kings and hordes of furniture. Too much, it was too much. Still, she needed to be strong, at least until she reached her promised room. She curtsied slightly, white hair shifting to frame her pale face. “Hello everyone. I’m Irisviel von Einsburn, and I am your newest . . . uh . . . tenant?”</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>Then chaos erupted.</p><p>“WHAT?!” “Tenant, what does she mean by tenant?” “Look at her eyes and hair, do you think Merlin sent her?” “She kind of reminds me of someone . . .” “How did she change the mind of the King?” “Perhaps -” “- impossible -” “- I can’t -” “- how -” “Shove over -”</p><p>“EVERYONE SHUT UP!” The clock roared. Silence was immediate. “We are the Knights of the Round Table. Act like it.” He turned back to Irisviel. Her face, which was already pale, had gone a bit paler. Her red eyes were wide and round. “My apologies, it has been a while since we have had visitors. It will take us a bit to remember how to act in front of guests.”</p><p>Irisviel waved her hands, “No, no. It’s okay. I completely understand.”</p><p>“Just out of curiosity though,” the clock continued, “How did you get the King to change her mind?” </p><p>Irisviel opened her mouth to answer, but found that she didn’t rightly know. Something she said had to have made an impact, but what? Was it the offer to make food? But surely a King wouldn’t be swayed by such a paltry offer. But the more she thought about it, the more it seemed that had been the deciding factor.</p><p>“She offered to cook for the King.” Lancelot said, confirming her swirling thoughts.</p><p>There was a brief pause, as if everyone was examining his words for fault. Then, Gawain the clock spoke. “Yeah, that explains it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. He Was Trapped by the Prince, and His Daughter Exchanged Her Life For His . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! I am, in fact, not dead! I would like to say thank you for all the comments and kudos, and for being patient with my slow updates. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Most of the rabble was dismissed, Sir Gawain shooing them off until finally it was only Irisviel, Lancelot the candlestick, and Sir Gawain the clock left in the main hall. Silence was heavy, and Irisviel wasn’t sure what to say. What did you say to a clock and a candlestick after becoming the newest servant to a doll-like king? “Um . . .” She started, but the words wouldn’t come out. She licked her lips and tried again. “So, if I’m going to cook for the king, shouldn’t I know where the kitchens are?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll need a room to sleep in too, my lady.” Lancelot said, “Tools for gardening can probably be found later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of them moved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Sir Gawain sighed, hard. “We’ll leave your room for later, they have to be cleaned out anyway. Come on, this way towards the kitchens.” The clock waddled off, and after glancing at the candlestick, Irisviel followed. The painting, one half destroyed, the other half pristine, stared down at them, smiling gently.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The kitchens were in very good shape, and Irisviel stood, taking it all in, flanked by Sir Gawain and Lancelot. They were bigger than her small kitchen at home, and she couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer size. “This is it?” She asked, she had to make sure, she had to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, this is it.” Sir Gawain said. “We’ll need to find Sir Bedivere, he’s no-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ATTACK!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The scream came from nowhere, a small object hurtled towards Sir Gawain’s clock form. Sir Gawain stumbled back, trying to move out of the way with his stumpy clock legs. Lancelot jumped forwards, one arm swinging as if to block the flying object. Somebody shouted, Irisviel caught the shape of the object for a second, glinting in the light. She jerked forwards, hands held out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By luck more than skill, the object plopped into her cupped hands. It was a teacup, fragile looking, with cracks marring the delicate porcelain. For a second, silence, then the teacup exploded. Metaphorically. “What are you doing! Let me go! Put me down!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry!” Somebody called, a teapot came into view, hopping frantically towards their location. “Sir Mordred, how could you! Your form is still fragile! We just got you fixed from your last . . .” The teapot trailed off into silence, then it whispered softly, almost reverently, “So the rumors are true?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The teacup stopped raging, “Wait, this is her? This is the human fa- the King let in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As opposed to some other human, Sir Mordred?” The clock asked scathingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The teacup, Sir Mordred, started raging again, jumping up and down in Irisviel’s hands. “Let me go! That clock, by orders of the King, is not allowed in the kitchen! I will kick him out, I swear it! I swear it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh huh,” Sir Gawain said, “You’re a teacup, I’m a clock. I have the advantage here, runt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred fumed, “You say that to my face you coward! Hiding behind Lancelot and a lady! Come up here and fight me like a knight! Oh wait, you can’t! Your legs are too short”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, at least I have legs!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel, Lancelot, and the teapot watched as heated accusations and insults flew between the clock and the teacup. “Uh,” Irisviel said, “Should we stop them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ll run out of steam eventually, my lady.” Lancelot said in a very tired voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re siblings, if you can’t tell. Well, half siblings at least.” The teapot said, his voice soft. Irisviel couldn’t tell, she’d never had a sibling before, was this how they normally acted? The teapot jumped suddenly, his melodious voice going an octave higher. “Ah, forgive me, my lady! I have not introduced myself!” The teapot bobbed in a facsimile of a bow, “I am Sir Bedivere, the current keeper of the kitchens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel glanced nervously at the furious teacup in her hand, then bobbed her own curtsy. “It is very good to meet you, Sir Bedevere, Sir Mordred. I’m Irisviel,” she glanced down at the teacup again. “Should I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“YES!” The teacup roared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Behind me, please.” Sir Bedevere said. He sounded very, very tired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel nodded, took a couple steps forwards, and set the teacup gently on the floor behind the teapot. Immediately, without thanking her, the teacup attempted to throw himself at Sir Gawain again. He was too slow though, and the teapot managed to hook his spout through Sir Mordred’s handle, and the furious teacup was stopped in his tracks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How dare you! Betrayal! You know Gawain ain’t supposed to be in here! He’ll set fire to something! Again! Let me go you yellow bellied, one armed -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Mordred!” Lancelot thundered, “There is a lady present!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The teacup stopped struggling. “So?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So watch you manners!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Bedivere added, “restrain your tongue and at least try to recover your manners from wherever you placed them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I AM A GOOD COOK!” The clock burst in from where he had been sitting in stunned silence at Mordred’s words. The teacup started to bristle again, the candlestick slumped and sighed, and Irisviel had a sinking feeling that the two were about to be at it again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ENOUGH!” Sir Bedivere yelled, “I really must apologize for raising my voice, but you two need to stop. You are being discourteous to our guest. Sir Gawain, you should probably make sure that cleaning a room for lady Irisviel is going well, you know how useless some of those knights are at housework. Lancelot, you should probably accompany him. Please?” The, and make sure he doesn’t come back, went unsaid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Sir Gawain said. He turned stiffly to Irisviel, performed a short bow. “My lady, I will see you later.” Then he headed out of the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The candlestick wavered indecisively, but then he bowed sharply. “My lady, Sir Bedivere, Sir Mordred, good day to you.” Then Lancelot turned, and hopped out, following the candlesticks path.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“AND DON’T COME BACK!” Sir Mordred yelled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With an aggrieved sigh, Sir Bedevere set the teacup down. “Please forgive Sir Mordred, he truly is an excellent knight, manners aside.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m the best!” Sir Mordred said smugly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt like she had just seen some sort of play or read some sort of children's story. She was a bystander, not a participant. With effort, she marsheled her thoughts. “Oh! Uh, okay.” She smiled hesitantly, “Is there a particular reason Sir Gawain isn’t allowed in the kitchens?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred bounced excitedly. “He’s a horrible cook, absolutely the worst. He burns everything! Even water! And if Gawain and Lancelot are in the same room for longer then ten minutes, they start trying to murder each other. Although they’re better at not fighting now.” He sounded too chipper for the solumnity that those words deserved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well,” Sir Bedevere coughed gently, “As intricate as things are between the people in this castle, perhaps we should focus on our guest and her job here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That would be nice,” Irisviel murmured. The threat of fainting had been pushed back by the sheer incredulousness of her situation. She could pass out later, when this all sunk in. Right now, it was floating above her head, just out of reach. There was something about watching a clock and teacup argue that made her delusion theory seem all too real. Either that, or she was in shock. Actually, she was most definitely in shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, very well then.” Sir Bedivere said, “Could you please pick up Sir Mordred? He has an unfortunate habit of -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I DO NOT NEED A BABYSITTER!” The teacup roared, jumping up and down furiously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel leaned down and picked him up anyway. He vibrated in her hands angrily. “I’m not babysitting you,” she said softly, “I’m simply helping out, just as you could possibly help me? I need to know when the King takes her meals.” She attempted a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred's anger washed away, “Any time! The King will never turn down food, not even the burnt crap Gawain attempts to pass as food!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Bedivere watched them, then said, “This way, let me show you what you’re working with.” He hesitated, “it might not be what you’re used to.” He turned and started hopping through the kitchens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, what is that supposed to mean?” Irisviel asked, hurrying after him, keeping the teacup close to her body in case he fell out of her hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well!” Sir Mordred said, “The woods outside the castle, if you haven’t noticed, aren’t normal. So the game the King takes from them isn’t necessarily normal either. Have you ever had chimera before? What about gazer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt her stomach sink. “You’re joking right? He’s joking.” He had to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Bedivere did his best impersonation of a shrug. “No, the King always said that a strange creature's meat is like any other creature's meat. Even before her transformation. She wasn’t picky about her food, she would eat anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even Gawain's burnt offerings.” Sir Mordred grumbled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Surly Sir Gawain’s cooking can’t be that bad?” Irisviel asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Bedivere hesitated, “Just pray that you never see him in the kitchens. That sight usually means something is on fire.” He started forwards again, “As for the supplies to make meals, we have a vegetable garden in the back. I don’t think it’s been taken over by the flowers yet. And, well, meat of suspicious nature. The King hasn’t hunted in a while, because . . .” He sighed, “She wasn’t using up what she had. Previously, the King would have no problem cooking her own meal, she simply allowed others to do it because King’s aren’t supposed to cook for themselves. But now, she refuses to cook her own meals, and we can’t cook as we are, so we didn’t end up using the meat. However, it was salted, so most of it should still be good, and we have spices to cover the flavor if it isn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could always make stew,” Irisviel murmured, thinking hard, then she frowned. “How long has it been since the King last ate?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A while,” Sir Mordred said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Time works differently here,” Sir Bedivere answered, “And the King is no longer fully human. I’m not entirely sure she needs to eat any more. Ah, here we are, could you please open the door? I am unable to, and Sir Mordred is liable to break himself again while attempting to do so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“HEY!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Irisviel moved Sir Mordred to one hand, then twisted the nob. The door swung inward, there was a rush of cool, still air. Irisviel blinked, then took a wild guess. “Magic?” Well, maybe it wasn’t so wild, with everything she’d seen in the past day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, it could still be a delusion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Sir Mordred said, “That lazy ass court mage was good for some things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Mordred, watch your mouth!” Sir Bedivere said sharply, “And don’t insult him either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, you know you agree with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel set Sir Mordred back down, “Uh, I’ll be right back.” With a little bit of hesitation, she stepped forwards into the store room. It wasn’t as dark as she expected, and stepping inside sent chills up her back. There was a definite difference in temperatures, the storeroom being much colder than the outside world. Slowly, she started drifting through the shelves, searching for supplies. Dimly, she could hear Sir Mordred and Sir Bedivere speaking in low voices, the rise and fall of their murmured conversation. As Sir Bedivere had said, most of the meats looked to be in good shape. Stiffly, she picked up a large hunk, sniffed it delicately. It smelled heavily of salt, and she didn’t see any spots of mold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She needed gloves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She swallowed heavily, forced the thought away, and continued looking around. She found the spices that had been mentioned, cheese that wasn’t too moldy, and glass vials that contained what looked like pickled vegetables. That wasn’t what she wanted, she continued in, searching the shelves. Finally, she found a few bowls full of potatoes, carrots, and onions. Most of them were bad, but few were salvageable, enough for what she needed, at least. She walked out with her hoard of bounty, set it all down on a table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you making?” Sir Mordred asked, jumping up onto the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Beef soup, or whatever this type of meat is soup.” She sent an awkward smile in the teacup’s direction, “And before you say anything, I don’t want to know what type of meat this is, I’m perfectly content pretending it’s beef.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Then for your sake, my lady, we shall also pretend it's beef.” Sir Bedivere said, following Sir Mordred’s example and jumping onto the table. Teapot and teacup watched her as she took off her bag and set it gently on the table, then went to investigate the large fireplace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred hopped over to her bag, nudged it slightly. “What’s in here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Mordred! It is not polite to pry!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, it’s fine.” Irisviel laughed softly, a bit bitterly. “It’s just the tonics I have to take. Where’s the iron pot?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Over there, and wood for the fire is outside that door over there. It leads to the kitchen gardens.” The teapot hesitated, “Health tonics?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it because you’re all weird looking?” Sir Mordred burst out, “With the white hair and the red eyes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Mordred! Stop being so rude, seriously, I know it’s been awhile since we’ve had visitors, but that does not mean that you can just spit out whatever you think up!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel giggled at their bickering, picked up the iron pot, lugged it over to the fireplace and strung it up. “Oh no, not at all! I’m what my grandfather calls an albino, it happens occasionally in my family. The health tonics are for something completely different.” She opened the door, stepped outside into the moonlight, a few minutes later, she walked back in, carrying a couple of logs in her arms. “The bucket for the well isn’t sentient, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Bedivere rocked side to side, a teapots version of a head shake. “Not that I’m aware of.” He hesitated, the briefest of pauses, then continued, “I’m not sure though. Back when the curse was first initiated, everything was sentient, but by now, well, it’s been a long time, and most in the castle were unable to cope.” He sighed, a forlorn and sad sound, “If the curse isn’t lifted soon, then eventually we will all cease to exist, and the King will be as alone as she believes herself to be already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Irisviel said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry.” She walked outside, came back wielding a full bucket of well water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred was not to be dissuaded, “So why the health tonics?” He asked, nudging the bag again as Irisviel poured water into the iron pot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was a sickly child,” Irisviel answered, her tone calm. Too calm. She was forcing it, and she knew they knew she was forcing it, but Sir Mordred reminded her of the children that delivered her supplies, and she figured that the knights and their king would have to know the truth eventually. She could tell them part of it now, “it was bad. A simple fever almost killed me once. The health tonics are to help me fight off any sickness that I might encounter.” She pulled back the empty bucket, went to fill it again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she came back, Sir Mordred was ready to speak again. “I don’t know why you’re carrying them around now, though. The only one who could possibly get you sick is fa - the King, and she doesn’t get sick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know that Sir Mordred,” Sir Bedivere said in long suffering tones, “there could be something in the food, or in the air, or in the water. We’ve been in limbo for a long time, anything is possible.” He hesitated, hurried on, his voice slightly panicked. “Not that you will get sick, that is. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel paused, bucket balanced on the edge of her iron pot, then began to giggle again, this time uncontrollably. “Thank you for that, now, if I could please focus on . . . dinner? If I could please focus on dinner, that would be wonderful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, my lady.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel set the table carefully, one plate on each end of the table. Supposedly, Sir Bedivere was off fetching the King, Sir Mordred was guarding the kitchens from an invasion of the clock kind, and Sir Gawain was attempting to finish off cleaning the room she was supposed to take. That left her with Lancelot, who tried his best to help her set the table, but since he was a candlestick, he couldn’t do much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So far, the cutlery and plates Irisviel had chosen hadn’t spoken, and she wasn’t sure whether to be glad for that fact, or not. She would be a bit squeamish eating with them if they were sentient, but if they weren’t, well, then they would be dead and that was hardly any better, was it / “Lancelot?” She asked, grabbing her own bowl of soup and setting it down before her seat, “Can you give me a quick run down on who I will most likely meet in the next few days? Please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot, who had retreated to the middle of the table, and was now casting a rather nice light onto the shining wood, shrugged. “Besides me, Sir Gawain, Sir Bedivere, and Sir Mordred, there is Sir Tristan, Sir Agraiven, Sir Gareth, Sir Galahad, Sir Kay, and a few others as well as various servants. Sir Tristan you probably won’t deal with a lot, he has, well, retreated, and not many but Sir Bedivere can get him out of his rooms. Sir Agraiven never leaves the King’s study, so you probably won’t meet him. Sir Gareth actually takes residence in your rooms, she’s your closet. You’ll like her, I think. As for Sir Kay, he will find you in time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel hesitated, “You forgot Sir Galahad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it her imagination, but did Lancelot wince?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors swung open, crashing against the walls. Lancelot froze, Irisviel turned. The King stood there, her dress billowing, her yellow eyes focused on the feast in front of her. Irisviel curtsied, and murmured softly, “Good evening, your majesty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening, your majesty,” echoed the candlestick and the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You may sit,” She said in her flat, emotionless voice. “And Sir Galahad, do not speak when there is food on the table.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, that answered her question about Sir Galahad.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The table didn’t reply and Irisviel sat down, watching as the King moved towards her own seat and the meal that awaited her. She moved smoothly, her dress barely constricting her stride. She was so small, so thin, but Irisviel could see the strength in her shoulders, the power in her gaze. This woman had effortlessly moved the door Lancelot had struggled with. She was dangerous, despite her deceptive size.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you enjoy your meal,” Irisviel said with a smile, “I’ll admit, this type of meat was new to me. I’m excited to see how it tastes.” She looked down at her ‘beef’ stew, looked back up at the King.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King was watching her, her face completely devoid of any clues to what she was feeling. She looked down at her dish, picked up the spoon, and took a bite of her soup. Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth twitched, with effort, she swallowed. “What,” she said, slowly, “Is this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not beef stew?” Irisviel tried, taking a bite of her own stew. It wasn’t that bad, for the ingredients she had on hand. “I’ll admit it could be better, but I’m sure my skills will be improved once I fix up the pantry a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King’s eyes narrowed faintly, she pushed her bowl away. Irisviel was startled to see this display of emotion of the doll-like King. The knights were right, food really was her weakness. “I’m not eating this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel set her spoon down, her own lips twitching into a frown. The room was heavy with expectant silence. If candlesticks and tables could sweat, then Lancelot and Sir Galahad would have been soaked. “Your majesty, you will eat your food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will not. It is not to my liking,” the King’s eyes were fierce, “And as King, I do not have to eat what I don’t like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know who also refuses to eat what they don’t like?” Irisviel asked, heart pounding in her throat, “Children, your majesty. Are you a child, or are you a king?” With an effort, she picked up her fork again, and took another spoonful of soup, attempting to seem unconcerned with the King's choice. Irisviel had traded her life for her grandfather’s, the least the King could do was eat the food Irisviel made for her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few seconds, the King pulled her own bowl back to her and picked up her spoon. “In the future, you will prepare my meals as I like them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And how do you like them, your majesty?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King met her eyes, yellow to red, her expression blank once again. “Burnt, greasy, and quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot flinched, Sir Galahad sucked in a sharp breath. Shocked, they were startled by their king's words. Irisviel guessed that the King’s taste didn’t run that way before the transformation. She was tempted to argue, but, no, she had already pushed her luck too many times today. “Very well, your majesty. In the future, all meals I shall prepare for you will fall under the not-healthy category.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King’s lips twitched again, then she turned to her food. For someone who didn’t like her food, she inhaled it quickly. In a matter of minutes, the King’s bowl was empty. Her yellow eyes once again focused on Irisviel. “After you finish eating, Lancelot will take you to your rooms. The knights should be done cleaning them by then. If not, send them to me and I will talk to them about their incompetence.” She stood, “I will see you in the morning, Irisviel.” And in a flutter of black skirts, she was gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel slumped in her seat. She wasn’t the only one, Lancelot wilted, and Sir Galahad the table sighed in relief. “For a second there, I thought I was dead.” Irisviel murmured, then she sighed, “What should I do with the plates?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take them to the kitchens,” Lancelot said softly, “They will see to themselves there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hesitated, then shrugged. Magic, she supposed. “Okay, I think I can do that.” Then, with shaking fingers and a determined air, she returned to her meal.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Daughter Wandered the Halls for Many Days . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! As always, I would like to thank you all for your comments and kudos. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter, and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lancelot took her to her room, leading her down the halls, flames flickering across the rock walls. Irisviel made careful notes of the twists and turns, she would hate to get lost in this maze. “What is Sir Gareth like?” She asked into the silence, the candlestick hadn’t really spoken since she’d put her dishes up.</p><p>Lancelot paused, “She’s friendly,” he said eventually, “cheerful, a bit girly. She’s friends with Sir Mordred,” he said that bit as if it was a major accomplishment. “I think you’ll like her, she is very easy to get along with.”</p><p>“She sounds like she would be,” Irisviel fell silent, listening to her footsteps and Lancelot’s hops. She could pick up other sounds now, the low murmur of conversation. She picked up her pace. Finally, she would have a chance to sit down and catch her breath, a chance to let it all sink in and the chance to faint without anyone to judge her. Except for Sir Gareth, but if she was able to be friends with Sir Mordred, then she could hardly be the judging type.</p><p>“What do you think you’re doing?” That voice, it was Sir Gawain. He sounded vaguely pissed, and Irisviel could imagine the clock hopping with furry. “Have you never seen a bedroom before? That is not how you make a bed!”</p><p>“This should be good,” Lancelot muttered, then louder, he coughed, “Sir Gawain, lady Irisviel has arrived.”</p><p>A door opened, and a very disgruntled looking clock poked his head out. “Lancelot,” the word was gritted out, then he sighed. “You may as well come in, lady Irisviel, we’ve done this room as well as it can be done without hands.”</p><p>“Ah, very well. Thank you.” She took a couple steps down the hallway, sent a smile Lancelot’s way, then slipped into the room. Her jaw dropped. It had been cleaned, that was obvious, but the bed was a mess that had been barely put together, sheets in disarray, tangled together in complicated knots. Various objects scattered the room, and when she entered, they started whispering in a low murmur. “Oh, wow.” She breathed, staring at the bed. She wasn’t sure whether she should hope it was alive or not. Like the plates and cutlery, it seemed a question best left unanswered.</p><p>“I know right?” A girl's voice, high and excited, Irisviel turned her head to stare at the large mahogany dresser. She flapped her doors, there was a glimpse of bright fabric from within. “I would have helped but, no hands! You must be lady Irisviel, I’m Sir Gareth, it is so nice to meet you. It’s been ages since I’ve seen somebody new. And you’re so pretty! Please let me choose your clothes, please, pretty please! Mordred won’t let me dress him up, and the King never dresses up. Please let me! Oh! Is that Lancelot? Hi Lancelot!”</p><p>The candlestick, who now stood at the entrance of Irisviel’s new bedroom, waved hesitantly. “Hello, Sir Gareth, it’s good to see that you’re still chipper.”</p><p>The dresser shuddered, “Let's not talk about chippers, anyway, it’s good to see you out and about!”</p><p>Gawain grumbled something, and Lancelot winced.</p><p>“Hi Sir Gareth,” Irisviel said, after glancing at the candlestick and the clock. Whatever was going on between them was officially not her problem, not today at least. She smiled at the dresser and gave a short curtsey. “It’s nice to meet you, and yes, you can choose my dresses.”</p><p>Sir Gareth squealed in delight. “Thank you!! Oh, I can’t wait. You should just call me Gareth, it kinda feels weird being called Sir. After all, I am a dresser.” The doors flapped again, “Now, the rest of you, scram! Irisviel has had a very long, troubling day, and she probably needs time to let it all sink in, and she can’t do that with you all gossiping about her in front of her.”</p><p>Various inanimate objects shuffled guiltily. </p><p>“Of course,” Gawain said, bowing stiffly, “Goodnight, lady Irisviel.” He stumped off.</p><p>“Goodnight,” Lancelot murmured, before hopping off as well. There was a general shuffle as the rest of the sentient objects wished her goodnight then exited the room.</p><p>Irisviel closed the door, then slumped against the wood, the strength in her legs draining away. “Thank you, Gareth.”</p><p>“You’re very welcome! Now, put that bag down and get some sleep. You look like you need it, we can talk in the morning. Goodnight!”</p><p>Iriveil smiled, “Goodnight.” She slipped her bag off her shoulders, set it gently onto the ground, and moved towards the bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p><em> Flowers. Flowers as far as the eye could see. Delicate petals of purples and pinks and whites, leaves of a soft green-blue, stretching from horizon to horizon, blending into the soft blue sky. Irisviel turned, her feet sinking into the carpet of flowers, her dress twisting with the movement. Frowning, she pulled at the fabric that clung to her, a tight bodice, a long, loose skirt, loose short sleeves that fell off her shoulders, white woven with gold. </em> Respect me, <em> it seemed to say, </em> I am innocent and naive and pure, but more powerful than you will ever hope to be. Respect me, worship me, love me. <em> It wasn’t the dress of a country girl, it was the dress of a princess or a queen. </em></p><p>
  <em> Irisviel had never seen it before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But she’d seen the flowers, oh yes, she’s seen the flowers before, laying siege to Camelot’s garden. They had conquered this place, a wave of blooms, bowing and dancing to a breeze she could not feel. Where was she? She couldn’t be dreaming, not like this. She had never dreamed of something like this before, Irisviel wasn’t even sure she dreamed, every time she woke to the real world, her time asleep was a simple blank in her memory. But this was different, she could feel the cloth of her unfamiliar dress slide across her skin, could feel the flowers against her bare feet, tickling her ankles, could smell the heady, sweet smell. It felt all too real, like she had fallen into another world. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She spun around, her dress spreading out with the movement, the world flashing around her. She laughed, high and delighted. She felt stronger here, at ease, her breathing came easier, it felt like her thoughts came faster. She felt . . . alive in a way she never had before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She stopped twirling, stumbling to a standstill, giggling delightedly. She caught her breath, straightened, lost it again. Before her was a tower, though she hadn’t remembered a tower being there before, it floated in the air, elegant, white and gold stone, a purple base that spiraled down into the flowers. Flowers circled the form, large ones, darker than the ones at her feet, purples and blues like the night sky. It was otherworldly, floating there, impossible and beautiful at the same time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel glanced around, and started heading towards it, feet slipping through the blossoms at her feet. The image wavered, the flowers broke away from it, those large, night-like blooms, and suddenly she was being bombarded by a wind, fierce and violent. Her dress was pushed against her form, her hair whipping back, her feet sliding. She jerked her arms up to cover her face, she felt petals hit her arms and her sides and her legs, she could imagine their darkness staining her dress, spreading, spreading, spreading. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. Irisviel lowered her arms, looked around. The field of flowers was gone, no, not gone. It was there, outside the window. She was inside the tower. Impossible, this was impossible. Talking clocks and candlesticks were one thing, floating towers and teleporting flowers was another. This had to be a dream, even if she didn’t normally dream like this, there was no other explanation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She felt like screaming, or crying, or perhaps fainting again. But she was asleep, she remembered falling asleep, so all she could do was wake up. She had to wake up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She didn’t want to wake up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She spun around, slower this time, taking in the sight of the room. It looked like a study of some kind, a desk, worn wood, a chair with lots of cushions. Pillows and carpets decorated the floor, plump with tassels. A painting dominated one wall, tapestries covered the others. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel stopped breathing, because she knew that painting. It was a twin to the one in the entrance hall, the one of the woman in green, the other half destroyed. Here, it was whole, the colors as bright as if it had just been painted. There was the woman, her green dress, her green eyes, her brown hair, the gold crown. Beside her was the King, but she was not the King at the same time. Her hair was truly golden instead of the pale yellow color the King’s was, her skin a healthy tan instead of sickly pale, her eyes were no longer that horrifying yellow, they were blue-green, like some kind of gemstone or a lake in shade. Her dress wasn’t black, but blue, her armor silver, her crown balanced on her head. She was smaller than the other woman, just a tad slighter, but she carried herself with the strength of someone who was used to having the weight of the world on her shoulders. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel stepped closer to the painting, drawn in, staring. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The King, this King, was a lake to the woman’s forest, and the longer Irisviel stared at her, the more she started to see. She held herself distantly, like the current King did, something to look at but not to touch, but there was something in her gaze that made it look like that mask was only skin deep. Her eyes were like a lake, calm and cool and cold, hiding shadows and rocks and surprises beneath the surface. She looked at Irisviel like she saw her without seeing her, a subject instead of a person. In that way, she looked like the King, that distance, that dissonance from the woman beside her. But like that lake, it was only surface deep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel stepped closer, reached out one hand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She was lonely, this King was, Irisviel could see it in the slight darkness in her eyes. She couldn’t understand why though. This King was holding the hand of a beautiful woman, had subjects that loved her, admired her even after her transformation, she had no reason to be lonely. Irisviel thought of the King as she was now, and she knew what she would say. “The king has subjects, not friends.” The current King lived it, this woman in the picture looked like she was trying to live it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel reached up, on her tiptoes, her finger’s grazing the King’s face. Grief welled up in her, for the King who separated herself from everything, for the beautiful Queen who must have tried her best to reach the woman beneath the mask. What had happened? To them, to Camelot? What had changed? What had changed her into the creature she was today? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “AHHHHHH! OH MY GOD WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY TOWER!?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel shrieked, jumping back from the picture and spinning around, tripping on her long skirts and falling back, mouth agape in shock. There was a man standing there, balanced on one foot as if he too had jumped back, one finger pointing at her, his mouth slack. Irisviel stared, and stared, and stared, because this man could not pass for human. His hair was wild and long, white like hers, with blues and purples and pinks and golds woven through it, shifting colors with each breath he took. His robes were extraordinary, his pointed ears were decorated with something that looked an awful lot like the flowers below. But his eyes were the worst, pink with purple pupils, utterly inhuman. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Slowly, he recovered, coughed awkwardly once, then flourished a complicated bow. “My apologies, beautiful lady,” he smiled at her, something more akin to a smirk then a smile, “I was not expecting company tonight. Please, do not be alarmed, I mean you no harm.” He practically purred this last bit, his eyes dancing over her dress, her hair, her eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel swallowed nervously, then pushed herself up, sweeping into a curtsy. “Ah . . . hello. I’m Irisviel von Einzburn, it’s nice to meet you? Uh - who are you? And where am I?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He chuckled once, swept out a hand. “I,” he proclaimed, chest puffing with pride, “am Merlin! King Arthur’s court mage! The best magus in the world! And you, beautiful lady, have managed to make your way to Avalon, my domain.” He smirked again, his pink eyes shifting colors briefly, blues flashing through the purple.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh,” Irisviel said, because that didn’t clear things up at all. Then, “Wait, court mage? The one Sir Mordred said cast the spells on the pantry?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He puffed up again in pride, “The very same. It is wonderful to kn -” he cut off, stared at her, eyes suddenly wide. “How do you know Sir Mordred?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I met him?” She hazarded. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And suddenly, he started to laugh, and suddenly, the room shifted, and he was in front of her grabbing her chin and tilting it in his hands. “Fine bone structure, lovely eyes, exotic looks, very different face from that other guy,” he made a face, “ugh, he was an ugly old bat. But you are beautiful and have a fine figure. Yes, this might do, this might do very well indeed.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel jerked her chin out of his hands, took a few stumbling steps back, face flushing. “Excuse you! You don’t just grab someone and start making a list about their features!” Was this how a horse felt while being examined before it was bought? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin ignored her, muttered for a few more minutes, then jerked his head up so his inhuman eyes met hers. There was something distant in that gaze, as if he wasn’t really looking at her, but at something far away. “You’re in Camelot.” He said, voice filled with equal measures of horror and wonder, “I really should have looked sooner, but I just woke up, I’m allowed some leeway.” He focused on her, “You’re about to wake up, so I’m going to make this quick. I need you to seduce the King.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>Irisviel jerked awake, gasping for breath, the dream still fresh in her mind. It was such an odd dream too, a field of flowers, a floating tower, an inhuman mage. She didn’t remember dreaming up anything quite like it before. She closed her eyes, trying to make sense. What had he said? She needed to seduce the King? She didn’t understand . . .</p><p>Vertigo hit, everything from the past day came crashing down upon her head. Her father’s disappearance, the twisted woods, the castle, the garden, the King with her doll-like appearance, Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Bedivere, Sir Mordred, Sir Galahad and Gareth. And now that dream, because it had been a dream, even if she could still feel the silky heaviness of that dress she’d been wearing. Magic, it was the only answer, because it had felt too real to be a fever dream or some form of madness. </p><p>A sob welled up in her throat, caught, burst out.</p><p>“Irisviel, are you okay?” Gareth’s voice, worried but gentle at the same time.</p><p>Irisviel pushed herself up, scrubbed at her cheeks. “No - I -” she sobbed again, harsh, tears leaked from her eyes. “It’s just - it’s all so much!” She broke down completely, pulling her knees to her chest and burying her head in her arms, shoulders shaking.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Gareth said, softly, “It’s okay. Just let it all out, there, there.”</p><p>Irisviel shook harder, feeling hopelessness well up. She was being comforted by a dresser of all things! And she still needed to change clothes and take her tonic and cook breakfast and start on the garden, and those all seemed such mundane tasks, like it was a normal day! But her clothes were being picked by a dresser, she was cooking breakfast with mystery meat and limited supplies for a doll-like King, and the garden was a battlefield laid claim to by the flowers from the dream. It was all too unnatural! And all she was was a helpless country girl! A sickly, albino one at that! It was too much!</p><p>So she sat there on a bed that may or may not have been sentient, sobbing, being consoled by a friendly dresser as her new reality forced its way into her mind. Yesterday she’d been in shock, but now she felt like the numbness had been lifted and it was all too much . . . </p><p>Slowly though, her tears cleared, and she uncurled, wiping her face. She wasn’t a pretty crier, she never had been. Her pale skin was blotchy, her nose and eyes red. “I’m sorry Gareth,” she choked out, “I must look so . . . fragile to you.”</p><p>Gareth’s voice was gentle, understanding. “No, Irisviel, you are far from fragile. You are the bravest person I have met in a long time. You stood up to the King and made her change her mind. Multiple times, I might add. You saved your Uncle’s life. It is naturally to cry, to be overwhelmed in situations that feel like they are beyond your control. Trust me, I know.”</p><p>Irisviel looked at the dresser, “Really?”</p><p>“Really, my first tournament, I was an absolute wreck. I threw up at least three times before getting on the field, and afterwards I practically sobbed through the award ceremony, I was that overwhelmed. Gawain thought I’d been injured. Mordred still brings it up in conversations.” The dresser flapped her doors, her tone became wry, “Compared to most, your breakdown was actually relatively tame.”</p><p>“Oh,” Irisviel wasn’t sure why that was so comforting, but it was, “Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome, Irisviel, now come over here and let me choose your dress for the day. You should probably clean up your face as well, Bedivere won’t ask about your eyes, but Mordred will. If he does ask, ask him about the time he almost got killed by a hedgehog.”</p><p>Irisviel blinked, “Sir Mordred almost got killed by a hedgehog?”</p><p>“YES!” Gareth squeaked, loudly, “It was hilarious. Now, what do you think, the blue dress, or the purple one?”</p><p>“I’m going to work in the garden today, so something that it’s okay to get dirty in?”</p><p>“Oh, you shouldn’t have to worry about that, Merlin magicked the clothes or something. That magus avoids dirt like the plague, if he sees a speck of it on anyone’s clothing he flips out. One time, this man came in with a message for the King, well, Merlin would not let him in because he was covered with mud. Arthur had to kick Merlin out of the throne room. It was hilarious!”</p><p>Irisviel giggled slightly, but inwardly, her mind was spinning. Gareth had just confirmed the mage Sir Mordred had mentioned was indeed Merlin, so her dream had to have been real. And Arthur, that had to be the King’s name. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Somehow, it seemed as false as the distance King Arthur had shown in the painting, something put on because that's how others expected her to be. A glove, a mask. Arthur.</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>Making breakfast was a difficult affair. As Gareth had said, Sir Mordred bothered her relentlessly over her blotchy cheeks and swollen eyes, but he slinked off sullenly as soon as the word hedgehog left her lips. Sir Bedivere didn’t ask, but he watched her, pointing out ingredients and utensils. His presence reminded her of Gareth, but calmer. It was no wonder he’d been tasked with watching the whirlwind that was Sir Mordred.</p><p>Breakfast was worse. Lancelot stood on the table, looking stiff and uneasy, illuminating the room. Sir Galahad was utterly silent, except for his muttered, “Your Majesty” when the King entered the room. No, not the King. Arthur. What had once been Arthur. Merlin’s words rose into her mind, and she felt hysteria rise up in her throat. Seduce the King? Was he mad? Who did he think Irisviel was?</p><p>Irisviel sat after curtsying deeply, the fabric of the dress Gareth had picked out catching light with the movement. “I hope,” she said after picking up her spoon, “that you find your meal satisfactory, my king.”</p><p>She stood there, staring at Irisviel, before taking her seat and looking down at her oatmeal. Irisviel, after making her own, had taken the remains, dumped a liberal amount of salt and sugar into it, then set it on fire before dousing it with a bucket of water from the well. The result was, as the King, Arthur, had requested yesterday, impalpable to human appetites. The King, no Arthur, she was Arthur, for all that she had changed, lips quirked. It was the tiniest amount, but victory flared in Irisviel’s chest. “It is suitable,” her voice however, was as flat and emotionless as ever.</p><p>Irisviel beamed, “That’s good.” She turned back to her own oatmeal. She’d had to reheat it, but it still tasted good for the ingredients she’d had at hand. She felt proud of herself, and that pride eased the tension, the uncomfortableness strangling her chest disappearing slightly. She glanced at th - Arthur. She was eating quickly, scooping the horrid mess up and devouring it as if it wasn’t burnt and waterlogged and salty and surgery at the same time. </p><p>It had been quite cathartic, setting that whole mess on fire. Sir Bedivere had been horrified, Sir Mordred, who had hopped back in just in time, had found the sight hilarious.</p><p>Irisviel took another spoonful of oatmeal, and glanced back at Arthur. The completed picture from her dream rose in her mind. The faces were the same, the delicate nose, the large eyes, the small lips, the round cheeks, the slightly pointed chin. But the mask the Arthur in the picture had worn had been skin deep, complete, but skin deep nevertheless. This woman lived it, breathed it. For some reason the image of a lake rose once again in her mind. A cold, calm lake with hidden depths and dangers turned to something shallow and clear, acidic. A lake transformed into a sulfur pool. </p><p>Arthur met her eyes, and Irisviel froze, she could feel heat rise to her cheeks. She had been staring at her! The King! Oh god . . . she averted her gaze, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It was rude of me.”</p><p>“You were crying.” A statement instead of a question, and Irisviel glanced at her again. Arthur’s bowl was empty, her spoon sitting on the wood of the table, er, on top of Sir Galahad. Her yellow eyes were blank, cold, empty.</p><p>Irisviel didn’t know what to say, she hadn’t thought Arthur would notice, much less comment on the fact. “I had a bad dream,” she said, the lie forming and passing across her lips before she could fully comprehend saying it. Somehow, she doubted this Arthur would understand her breakdown like Gareth had.</p><p>For a few more seconds, Arthur continued to stare at her, before standing up. “This was satisfactory,” she said, pointing at her empty bowl, “You will continue to cook like this.” In a flutter of black skirts, she was gone.</p><p>“Oh shit,” Sir Galahad said, “that was weird.”</p><p>Lancelot, who had been so quick to admonish Sir Gawain’s language, ignored the table, instead turning to Irisviel. “Are you okay, my lady?”</p><p>Irisviel touched her cheek, a questioning look in her red eyes. She had been so certain that the splotches on her cheeks had disappeared and that most of the swelling had gone down. Had she been wrong? “I’ll be fine, Lancelot. Thank you for your concern.” She swallowed, “Does she normally comment on stuff like that?”</p><p>The candlestick swayed from side to side, “Not since her transformation, no.”</p><p>Irisviel set her hand down on the table. “Oh.” The word was soft, a bit confused. </p><p>
  <em> “I need you to seduce the King.”  </em>
</p><p>Irisviel shook her head, forcing the wizard’s words out of her mind. Stupid wizard, what was seducing Arthur going to accomplish? Nothing, that’s what. It had absolutely no connection to her current situation. Perhaps it had just been a dream after all, and Merlin’s name dredged up from the countless mutters that followed her wake. Yes, that was right, it had to be. Just a dream. Because there was no possible way the court mage of Camelot had visited her in her sleep and then told her to seduce the King.</p><p>Irisviel scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal and started to eat determinedly, forcing her thoughts on actually useful things. She would have to leave the roses for later, they had survived this long, they could survive a few more days. First order of business was getting the vegetables and fruits into good order. Yes, just what she needed. A little bit of normal to ground herself in all this craziness. </p><p>That’s exactly what she needed.</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, Irisviel was elbow deep in dirt, her dress stained with grass and mud. Above her, the full moon shone with it’s bright silver light, gracing the plants below. The flowers from the garden, from her dream, had left this place alone mostly, and limbo had done weird things to the vegetables and fruits. Most of the ones she had picked were small and white, and she despaired of ever getting a proper tomato. Now, she was determinedly yanking up weeds and a few of those mystery flowers that had managed to find their way in here. The prelude to an invasion.</p><p>Irisviel leaned back, wiping her forehead and chuckling. She knew there was dirt smeared across her face, and had probably caught in her white hair which she had put up, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. This was familiar, comforting, even if she didn’t know how these plants were still producing fruit when there was no sun in the sky. Magic, perhaps. That seemed the answer for everything around here. </p><p>Time passed as she toiled in the garden, clearing plots for new plants. She didn’t know if any would grow, but she hoped. Finally, she walked back into the kitchen, a basket of odd fruits and veggies in her grip, a smile on her face. Sir Mordred burst out laughing when he saw her, and almost toppled off the table because of it. Sir Bedivere was more dignified. “You might want to wash up before lunch,” he murmured as he retrieved the fallen teacup.</p><p>Irisviel sent her smile in his direction, “That was the plan,” she said, cheerfully, setting her basket on the table to go fetch some well water. It was pleasantly cool on her cheeks and hands, and after brushing as much dirt as possible out of her hair and off her dress, she made sandwiches with her limited supplies. Her own was made with the vegetables from the garden, which tasted like normal vegetables despite their looks. Arthur’s was made with mystery meat, moldy bread, rotten vegetables, and as much spices Irisviel could pack on the thing while still being able to call it a sandwich.</p><p>When Arthur saw it, she paused, then looked at Irisviel. Her face was blank as ever, her yellow eyes cold. But Irisviel thought she looked conflicted, if only slightly. “You are taking my words too literally.”</p><p>Irisviel raised an eyebrow. “You said unhealthy, my king. That’s as unhealthy as can possibly be.”</p><p>Arthur’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but she sat down and ate anyway. She left without saying a word, but Sir Galahad had had enough. “Are you magic, lady Irisviel?”</p><p>Irisviel giggled, “No, I’m just beyond caring at this point.”</p><p>“And waging a war none of us dare too,” Lancelot added, his voice carrying a note of awe in it. “You’re doing better than this morning, yes?”</p><p> Irisviel nodded, finished her sandwich, then whipped off her fingers. “Yes, working in the garden helped ground me. So, I should be fine.”</p><p>“That’s good,” Lancelot murmured.</p><p>Irisviel nodded, picked her plate up, grabbed Arthur’s then took them off to be washed. She then went in search of garden tools and seeds. Both were found in a wooden tool shed outside, the wood partially rotten, the structure held up with thick vines covered with white flowers that pointed up at the full moon. She finished clearing her plots, cleaning them of weeds, those odd flowers, and rocks, before churning the dirt, digging furrows, and planting new seeds, watering carefully. By that time, her stomach was starting to growl again, and she washed off, feeling pleased with her progress. She would be able to start working on the roses tomorrow. </p><p>She made soup for dinner again, this time toning it down on Arthur’s meal. She still made a mess of it though, and she could have sworn that Arthur had looked at her suspiciously, even if she hadn’t commented this time. By the time she made it to her room, caught up Gareth with her day, stripped and washed completely, and gone to bed, she’d forgotten all about Merlin’s words.</p><p> </p><p>🜲</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She was in the tower again, wearing that white dress. Immediately, Merlin was there, legs crossed, bending over, hands on knees, a twinkle in his pink eyes, “So? How did it go?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel looked at him blankly, uncertainty welling up in her mind. Similar dreams two days in a row, that was odd, very odd, especially for her. “How did what go?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin rolled his eyes, waved his hands around, “Seducing the King? How did it go?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel could only stare at him, “I didn’t try to seduce the King.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He gaped at her, “Why not?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Because this is a figment of my imagination, so nothing you say should be taken for granted.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin stared at her, then sighed, pinching his nose. “You think you’re dreaming.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I am dreaming.” She remembered falling asleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You are dreaming,” he aquisetted, “But that doesn’t mean this isn’t real. Last night, you made your way into Avalon accidentally, tonight, however, I brought you here.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel sighed, heavily, her mind spinning. “So I am dreaming, but I’m not dreaming?” It was all too confusing, she placed her head in her hands, massaged her temples. Was it possible to get a headache while dreaming? And how could she even take his words for granted? It was, after all, a dream. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I hate explaining things,” Merlin whined, “but I’ll make this exception just this once. You are sleeping, right now, your body is in your bed in Camelot. But your mind, your psyche, is not. You are in Avalon, where the two of us can speak. So in essence, you are dreaming, but this is also real.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Thanks,” Irisviel said, “That didn’t clear things up at all.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He scowled, “I can’t talk to you in Camelot, so I’m talking to you while you sleep. It’s part of my powers as the strongest mage ever. Now, I’m telling you once again, and don’t forget this, seduce the King!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Why should I?” Irisviel yelled, throwing her hands up. It wasn’t enough, she got up, started pacing around the room. Impossible, this was impossible. And here, where she felt stronger and better, as if she wasn’t struggling to breathe, her frustrations boiling over “I have traded my life for my grandfather’s, I am already cooking for her, and I’m cleaning up the garden! Isn’t that enough? I don’t see how seducing her is going to help this situation! I don’t see why it’s even relevant!” She was blushing, she could feel her cheeks heating up, this whole conversation was embarrassing beyond belief. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin placed a hand on his chin. “Cooking, huh, that’s a good start.” He twisted his head to watch her pace, “Besides, it’s very relevant. The fate of the world depends on it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “WHAT?!” She’d misheard, she had to have misheard. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He got up, “You heard me. That fate of the world depends on you seducing the King.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel sat, hard, eyes staring at nothing. She wanted to believe that this was a dream so badly, some sort of twisted dream. Her eyes landed on the painting, King Arthur and his Queen. “I don’t understand.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I don’t have time to explain it,” Merlin spat, “I have a lot of my energy focused on something else right now.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Well,” Irisviel spat back, pushing herself up. “You’re going to have to. Because there is no way I am going to seduce the King without an explanation as to why I should do so!” She might not even do it then, seducing the King, the very idea was ridiculous. She was a heartless doll, nothing more, nothing less. And married, if the painting was anything to go by! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin groaned, “Fine! Abbreviated version then! King Arthur was cursed by his sister, this curse makes her view the world as an enemy to Camelot, setting her on the path to destroying it. The only way to stop her was to send the castle into limbo and tie Camelot’s fate with Morgana’s. As long as Camelot is in limbo, Morgana is trapped. But the spell is failing, you are evidence of that. If the spell fails completely before the curse on Arthur is lifted, then the world ends. Therefore, you have to end the curse.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel crossed her arms, “I don’t see how seducing the King has anything to do with curse-breaking.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Why are you so stubborn?” Merlin whined, “The curse made Arthur completely heartless, so the only way to break the curse is to make her understand that she still has a heart! The paradox of a heartless creature having a heart will snap the curse like a twig!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel stared at him, then placed her hand against her forehead. He was a child, an absolute child, and the longer she spoke to him, the more she wanted to pick up one of the pillows and hit him over the head with it. “And you think the best way to do that is to seduce her? You realize that someone can be attracted to someone else without caring for them, right?” She’d read enough books to know that, “If I seduced her, there is no guarantee that the curse will break.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes it will!” He argued, “You’re gorgeous, new, and most important of all, the only human being in ages who has dared to stand up to her. She would be stupid not to fall for you! And she’s not stupid!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Once again, there’s a difference between lust and love!” She groaned, placed her head in her hands. At least her hands were cool against her hot cheeks. This was the worst, most embarrassing conversation ever, and if it wasn’t some sort of dream, then that made it ten times worse. She would talk to Gareth in the morning, see if the knight could confirm any of this story. “It would be easier, if this isn’t a figment of my imagination -” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s not.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “- to become friends with her than to seduce her. It would be much more likely to work.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “But that’s boring!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What are you, three? Deal with it!” She sighed, sat down again, feeling as if all the strength in her limbs had drained. “I’ll have to think about this.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin gaped at her, “What’s there to think about? Seduce, or befriend if you want to be boring, the King, save the world. Easy as pie.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Irisviel glared at him, she was starting to understand why Sir Mordred had practically called Merlin useless. He wasn’t helpful in the least. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said, softly, “I kind of have a lot on my plate right now. So yes, I will think about it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Merlin stared back with his pink and purple eyes, “Well, think about it quickly. A lot of lives depend on your decision. The fate of the world rests in your ability to make the King care for you in some way. And it’s not going to be easy, it’s going to take time. So, Irisviel von Einzbern, think quickly about what you’re going to need to do, because we don't have a lot of time left.” </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Fed Up With Her Capture, the Daughter Ran Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! First off, thank you so much for all your comments and kudos, you guys are the best. Second off, there is going to be a change in my update schedule. Theoretically, I should be updating quicker, as I just finished two other multi chapter fics I was working on. However, I just started college, hence the theoretically. So, just keep a heads up, updates will probably come quicker, but that's just a probably. Either way, updates shouldn't be getting slower. Now that that's done with, I hope you enjoy the next chapter and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel woke up contemplating murder, which would have been an odd occurrence for anyone, but it was a doubly odd occurrence for her normally calm self. She stared up at the ceiling, struggling with her frustration and embarrassment, then, after a deep, relaxing breath, she asked, “Gareth, who is Merlin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!” Gareth sounded excited, as if she’d been waiting for years to speak. “Merlin is King Arthur’s court mage. He’s kind of lazy, a bit of a pervert, and a big prankster, but he loves Arthur and would do anything for her! Has he met you yet? He travels through dreams you see, it’s the only way he can speak to people now. Have you spoken to him? What did he say?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I have spoken to him,” Irisviel said, slowly, “I thought I was making it up at first.” She fell silent, then took another deep breath. “He told me to seduce the King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“WHAT?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was my reaction too,” she sighed, “Gareth, I’m not sure I can believe him. He says the fate of the world lies in me finding a way to Arthur a heart, but . . . I don’t know. Can you tell me what happened, please? He told me some but I’m not sure how much I believe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a while the dresser was silent, then she spoke, her normal happy voice subdued. “Yeah, I can, come on, I’ll tell you while you get dressed. So, I guess it began with Uther, Arthur's father. He wasn’t the greatest guy, and the stories were a bit unpleasant, but the end is that he left Arthur’s half sister Morgana a need for revenge against his line. And Morgana, she waited a long time, and, we were safe here, then . . . things began to fall apart.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, heavier. “Lancelot, well, he was a knight back then, he was discovered to be having an affair with the Queen, Guinevere. I’m sure you’ve seen her and Arthur's portrait in the great hall. Well, Arthur was, I don’t know, I think she was happy for them, but I don’t think either of them understood that, and, either way, she had to exile them because that’s what the people wanted and she did everything for her people. Lancelot was Arthur’s best knight, and after that, cracks begin to show. Whispers, rumors, Morgana’s influence, searching for a way in now that our defenses were down. But Merlin kept her out.” Her voice broke. “We never expected a traitor in the court, none of us did. We all love Arthur. She is the light, a burning light, perfect in every way. She loves Camelot beyond everything, and we all loved her. But somehow, Morgana slipped a traitor into the court, and that traitor did something to her, put a curse on her that made her into the King she is today. She went on a rampage, we tried to stop her.” A half sob, “Mordred fell first, I remember him stumbling into the hall, his armor cracked, his helmet shattered, his panicked cry that something was wrong with the King before she cut him down. I remember seeing his face, and thinking it was odd because he’d always kept his helmet up before, that it was odd because his face was so like Arthur’s, they could have been twins. Then I was next, I didn’t know what to do, she was our King and suddenly she wasn’t. I panicked, froze, everything went dark. I know that she made her way through us from what the others said. Agraiven, Kay, Gawain, Bedivere, Tristan, Galahad. None of them could stop her, not the strongest, and not those closest to her.” Another sob, louder. “I know that she faced Lancelot at the gate of the castle. He had come back, you see, because Merlin had visited him and told him something was coming. He rode all the way here, and bought Merlin enough time to cast the spell. And the next thing I knew, I was here, a dresser.” She flapped her doors weakly, “I couldn’t do anything to help! I couldn’t do anything for her or for my friends!” Her voice rose, a wail of grief, “and not all of us survived! I know that! I know some of us are only living because that spell is in place! And I’m so afraid that if it does unravel then it will just be the King in a castle filled with the dead! It will break her!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a sharp breath, leaned her forehead against the wood. It was true. Merlin's words were not a lie. “I am so sorry, Gareth,” the words were soft, under her forehead, the dresser shook with sobs she couldn’t release. “I am so, so sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had to fix this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wasn’t sure how.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she had too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King played with the quill, blank eyes staring at the papers before her, staring but not seeing. She’d been like this for minutes now, just staring at this paper, mind empty. She was forgetting something. What was she forgetting? She spun the quill faster, even though her brows did not furrow. This morning, Irisviel had watched her through the whole meal, red eyes soft and sad. She knew what had happened, of course she did. Merlin, the useless bastard, would have told her. So what of it? She had been weak before, and now she was strong, as a King should be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king,” Agraiven said, “it is unlike you to fidget.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King narrowed her eyes and squeezed the quill between her fingers. “I do whatever I wish, as fit of a king.” Still, she set the pen down, and lifted her gaze at the door. She felt nothing. She felt nothing because kings did not feel, so therefore she did not feel. Still, if it was possible for her to feel something, possible to put a name on it, it would be . . . fidgety. But she wasn’t fidgety, because she did not feel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Faintly, she frowned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door burst open, and Irisviel, white hair flying behind her, resplendent in a dark purple gown, curtsied slightly. “My king,” she said, voice soft and warm, “I was wondering if you would be willing to give me a tour of the gardens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tilted her head, glanced at the King through her long lashes, “My king, if I am to fix your gardens, then I must know how they were originally structured. I am not psychic, I will need you to tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have work to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be good for your subjects to see you going out and about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am busy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King stood up, and slowly, threateningly walked over and stood in front of the white haired woman. She stayed in her curtsy, although the King could see a slight wobble. “I gave you my answer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blinked, rapidly, fear flying across her face before being smoothed away. “You also expect me to do my job properly, which I cannot do if I do not know what I am supposed to do. You are going to have to show me, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This woman, she came into this castle, bargained for her worthless grandfather's life, then proceeded to defy and bend to the King’s commands in a confusing mix of bravery and compliance. Irisviel von Einzbern, a puzzle of too many pieces, who stared death in the face and dared challenge it while also being the picture of modest politeness. It was . . . something, somehow familiar and somehow new at the same time. And she had a point. “Very well, I will escort you through the gardens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She broke into a smile, wide and delighted, warm despite her cold appearance. “Thank you, my king.” She straightened, and the King realized that Irisviel was taller than her, not by much, but still taller. It was an insignificant thing, but somehow, it seemed important. Irisviel held the door open for her, and the King, who might have been vaguely confused, curious, and annoyed if she could feel, swept by her with her empty, doll-like expression.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The night, like the past few nights, like however long it had been since Camelot was thrown into limbo, was beautiful. The moon hung full in the sky, the stars shone bright with their soft, white light, the flowers beneath her feet were ethereal, dancing gently in a breeze she could not feel. Irisviel moved carefully through them, keeping watch for snags hidden by their leaves and petals. Beside her, Arthur moved with even strides, eyes gazing coldly out at the garden. “When was the last time you looked at this place, your majesty?” Irisviel asked, her head tilted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The garden is not my domain.” She said it coldly, the words emotionless as always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But the garden is part of Camelot,” Irisviel argued, “Therefore it would have to be part of your domain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur faltered slightly, just a hitch in her step, but it was definitely there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel flashed a smile, “Anyway, I do believe the roses can be saved, it will take me sometime though. However, all of these,” she spun around, gesturing at the waving flowers, “will need to be dug up. And after that is done, I’ll need seeds, and I didn’t see any in the tool shed.” She tugged on her lock of hair, “I told you I would be able to fix the garden, but I don’t know how you want me to fix it. So will you tell me, please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur stared at her, her amber eyes uncaring, then she pointed to the roses. “Save these first, restricting the blooms and acquiring seeds can be done at a later date. The fruits and vegetables and herbs should be prioritized. Everything else is left to your discretion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel blinked, then curtsied, wobbling slightly, flowers tickling her ankles. “Thank you, your majesty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do not thank me, I am merely doing my duty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Understood, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur turned, and walked away, a patch of darkness against the light flowers. Irisviel watched her go, then turned back to the garden. That had been successful, if only marginally so. But, baby steps, baby steps. A curse could not be ended in a day. With a smile on her lips, Irisviel got to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who was the traitor?” Irisviel asked, running her fingers over the tapestries lining the walls. This one was of an elaborately carved sword sticking out of a rock, golden rays falling to grace the scene with their light. Ethereal and beautiful, something woven from shadow and light and color, not with thread.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin scowled, “What do you mean?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Gareth said that there was a traitor that allowed Morgana’s influence into the court.” Irisviel said, turning to where the mage lounged against one of the cushions. “Who was it?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He sighed, twirled a strand of hair, pouted slightly. “I don’t know. I was preoccupied.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“With what?” The words were constrained, but she meant them. Arthur had been cursed, had gone on a rampage, and had nearly destroyed the world. What could Merlin have possibly been busy with compared to something as disastrous as that?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He sighed, “Getting my defenses ready. I didn’t know she’d already placed a traitor in the court. I thought we had time. Besides, how could she have? Everyone loved Arthur, she was perfect in every way.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Obviously not,” Irisviel said softly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin stood abruptly, glaring at her, “And what is that supposed to mean?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel twirled around, gestured at the painting where the past Arthur gazed with lonely blue-green eyes. “Look at her! That is the gaze of someone who is reaching her limits. Who is trying so hard to be something she can’t or will not be. The Arthur we have now, a cold-hearted tyrant, is the truth of the farce she was putting on. That isn’t perfection. That is torment! And that,” she pointed at her feet, to where she imagined herself lying prone in her bed, where she imagined the Arthur of now still going through her papers, “is not perfection either!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They fell silent, not looking at each other. Irisviel was breathing heavily, her anger surging in her like waves upon the shore. Anger at the past Arthur, who had decided upon her path and had continued on even as it broke her. Anger at Merlin, for not seeing what she could see. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“She was strong enough to bear it.” He said, finally. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Nobody is that strong.” Irisviel shot back, then she sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I apologize for my harsh words.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn’t answer, and for a long time the two of them stared at the portrait of the King and Queen. Finally, he asked, “How’s it going?” An obvious change of topic, but Irisviel allowed him a bit of leeway.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I got her to go look at the gardens with me. They are in absolute disarray.” She placed her hand against her forehead. “I have my work cut out for me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Not my gardens.” Merlin said, aghast.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yes, your gardens, and yes, your flowers. The only thing left is the roses, and they’re barely hanging on.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“That can’t be true!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“When was the last time you checked?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“ . . . Fine, I accept your point.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“How much time do I have?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel sighed and slumped against the wall. “Can you tell me about her? Gareth has, and a few of the other knights have given me bits and pieces, but I want the full story, not just the tragic ending. I want to know everything.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m busy.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“With what?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s not enough time.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“We have all night!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m expending a lot of energy.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Doing what?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Keeping limbo in place. Making sure Morgana doesn’t snap her bonds. Important things.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel stared at the painting. “I can’t make friends with a heartless machine, so I need to know there is someone in there worth saving.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“She’s in there.” Merlin said, shifting slightly. “You just have to look.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she woke that morning, it was to an incessant banging at her door. She blinked her eyes barely open, stared at the wall uncomprehendingly, the banging a background noise. Merlin said the true Arthur was in there, buried deep, she just had to look. The knights loved her, worshiped her, like she was a god, not some human being. But the gaze in that picture had been all too human. Had they seen past her mask? Had they chosen not to look? Had anyone tried, truly tried to reach the woman beneath? She had a feeling Guinevere had, they were married, of course she had. Had she stopped trying, given up when there were no results? Had she turned her gaze to others because of it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My lady,” a voice, loud and slightly panicked, accompanying the banging, “my lady, please open up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel pushed herself up, her long white, tangled hair framing her face. “Is that Lancelot?” Lancelot who had loved the Queen. Lancelot who had left the Queen to rush to his King’s side. Lancelot who had been trapped in limbo, away from his Queen, because he had tried to save his King. No wonder he was so sad. No wonder he didn’t call himself a knight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s him,” Gareth sounded surprised. “He doesn't normally bang on doors, that’s more Mordred’s style. You should probably see what he wants.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a tired sigh, Irisviel got off the bed and moved over to open the door. The candlestick stood there, flames flickering above the wax wildly, unease in every line of his body. “My lady, apologies for waking you up, but,” he hesitated, shook, then blurted out. “The King, she has left the castle!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*Plays Reverse Uno Card* Betcha didn't expect that!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Daughter Encountered Several Wolves, and the Beast Came to her Aid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello people! How are you all doing today? First off, let me thank you wonderful folk for your comments and kudos, you are the best. Secondly, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a great day!</p>
<p>Points to whomever can guess the stool's identity.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At first, all Irisviel could feel was shock, then panic bloomed from the numbness, shattering the silence. She became aware of Gareth speaking, over and over again. “But she can't, she wouldn’t, why? Lancelot, what happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The candlestick shook, “I don’t know!” He sounded desperate, defensive, and Irisviel took a deep breath even though it felt like everything was collapsing around her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur had left the castle. They were still in limbo, and theoretically, part of the woods around them were in limbo as well, but there were gaps in the defenses, rips in the spell. Grandfather had managed to get through, she had managed to get through. If Arthur found a way out, then it would be over, over for all of them. Irisviel had to find her, had to chase her, had to bring her back. In one jerky move, she stumbled back, grabbed one of her vials, downed it. Then she turned around, and walked out the doorway. “Gareth, I’ll be back, Lancelot, take me to the main hall.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The main hall was a mess, a crowd of objects littered the room, jumping over each other, yelling for attention. She could see Sir Bedivere, and Sir Mordred, and over the chatter of the others, Sir Gawain’s voice could be heard. “Silence! Order! You all are knights of the round table, you damned well should act like it!” It had no effect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel’s hands were trembling, her breath came in shaky gasps, but oddly enough, she felt numb, as if this was some kind of dream she was drifting through. But it couldn’t be a dream, not now, because she only dreamed of Avalon now. She was all too awake. “Announce me,” she whispered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said, announce me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot stared up at her, then turned to the crowd of sentient objects. “I PRESENT LADY IRISVIEL VON EINZBERN!” He roared it over everyone, and immediately, the crowd was silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stepped forwards. She was in her nightgown, her hair hadn’t been brushed, and she was in front of a crowd of knights. She felt ridiculous, but the situation was dire. She pulled herself up, shoulders back, closing off her face, her hands coming together in front of her. A creature of snow and ice, a thing sculpted from marble, as if she was speaking to Grandfather back from one of his long trips. “I will go after the King.” People started to murmur, and Irisviel spoke up over them. “I am the only one who can do it, I’m the only one who has any hope of catching up to her. And to be frank, we don’t have time to waste, if she finds the path out, your efforts would be for naught. I’m going.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not alone!” Someone cried, a teacup hopped out, Sir Mordred’s wild voice. “The forest is dangerous, Fa - the King can handle it, but you can’t!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I agree with the runt, Lady Irisviel,” Sir Gawain said softly, “You are no fighter, you do not have what it takes to face down what lurks beneath the bows of those woods.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s right though,” Lancelot argued, “she’s the only one who can catch up to the King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Voices through the crowd, some murmuring decent, some agreeing. “Besides,” Sir Bedivere’s voice was soft, even as he spoke loudly, “if she does fall into danger, the King will save her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No she won’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps once but now . . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If she goes, she’ll die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up all of you,” a voice, a new one, deep and powerful, one that Irisviel hadn't heard before. The crowds parted, and a stool pushed his way through. “You’re the girl.” It wasn’t a question, but Irisviel answered anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, if you get into trouble, scream. She’ll come running, because you’ll be either a prelude to an invasion or a subject of her castle. She may be an empty thing now, but that doesn’t mean she’ll leave you out there to die.” His voice rose, “We’re wasting time, let her go!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The murmurs died down, Irisviel bobbed a short curtsy, lifted her nightgown, and took off running down the hall, wondering who the stool had been. The people seemed to respect him greatly. “Thank you!” The words trailed behind her, then she was bursting out the door, down the steps of the castle, and into the moonlight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She slowed down as soon as she hit the woods, pushing branches out of her face and stepping over roots. The path that had led to the garden was gone, the trees around her were bent and crooked and dark. She felt hysteria rise in her throat, what could she do? She wasn’t a tracker, but she was the only one who could follow Arthur out into the dark. She pushed another branch out of her face and looked around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trees on every side, moonlight filtering through the branches. Where was the path? It had seemed so obvious coming in . . . she sighed, low and long, picked up her skirt, and continued on, stepping over rocks and roots. A boulder, vaguely familiar, melted on one side. She walked around it, and there . . . there was the path. Thin and slipping between the trees, woven through the forest like color through cloth. She stepped onto it, lifted her hands to her mouth, and shouted, “My King! Where are you?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sounded stupid. She felt stupid. Arthur had left, why would she answer her back? She moved forwards a couple paces, trying to find evidence of someone passing through. Nothing, nothing but the signs of a battle long since finished. What had happened here? She imagined Arthur, the Arthur from the painting, fighting something monstrous that threatened Camelot. She imagined her there, her gold hair shining in the light, her blue-green eyes sharp and determined, her armor gleaming brightly, sword in hand. She tried to imagine the other knights, what they would look like as they fought beside her. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t imagine their faces or their armor. She thought of the castle, half destroyed and crumbling. Had Arthur done that as she tried to escape, as her knights tried to stop her?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a scene she didn’t want to imagine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She yelled again into the forest, “ARTHUR!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing, the woods were silent. Sir Mordred, so risky with his teacup form, had told her the woods were filled with monsters, had told her not to go. Sir Gawain, so eager to argue with the other knight before, had backed him up. And so many of the others claimed that the woods were too dangerous to walk through. But on her way here, there had been nothing, her Grandfather had not been harried on his way to the castle as far as Irisviel knew, and he had made it back home safely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hadn’t he? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What if he had been caught? Eaten outside the walls of Camelot? He was supposed to get help, supposed to save her, but days had passed and there was nobody here. Nobody had come for her. Had he been devoured, killed by these beasts that she could not see? Suddenly the fear rose in her, panic and terror washing through her limbs. She froze, listened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The forest was silent, unnaturally so. The trees were twisted, some fragmented and broken. Rocks ruptured from the earth, some shattered, some melted. Moonlight fell, dappling the ground, casting shadows and turning the small patches of vegetation silver. She couldn’t see anything lurking in the darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stool, whoever he had been, had claimed that Arthur would save her if she screamed. Irisviel could only hope that he was right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She forced her hands up to cup around her mouth and yelled with all her might, “ARTHUR!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing, for the longest time nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, the faintest sound of something that might have been a howl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A chorus of noises, some near, some far, rising up, up above the trees. The sounds mixed, ducking and twisted together, a melody of sound, beautiful to hear. Irisviel wasn’t conscious of making a choice, but she was running now, running to a chorus of howls, tripping over rocks and roots, skirt tangling between her legs, hair snagging on branches, trying to get away from a sound that was encroaching ever nearer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This wasn’t what she had wanted when she’d screamed Arthur’s name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The trees blurred around her, clawing at her nightgown and hair, snagging and tangling, slowing her down. The sounds were never ending now, looping over and over, spiraling around her. She could see flashes of movement to her sides, hear growls at her back. She’d lost track of time, of where she was, the path long since left behind. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her sides heaved, her legs ached. She’d never ran so far or so fast, only adrenalin was keeping her up now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>These creatures, she didn’t know what they were, could have killed her long ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they hadn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she was running, running in a foggy state of panic, unable to figure out an escape from this situation. They were herding her somewhere, she had no choice but to go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She burst through a bush, branches and thorns ripping furrows into her skin, staggered into a clearing, the moon shining down, uncaring about her plight. A rock jutted out over the clearing, grass crunched under her feet as she spun around, eyes wide and panicked. Things were coming out of the woods, massive things vaguely wolf shaped with spines and too big teeth, spurs of bone jutting out of elbows and shoulders. The howl had faded now, it was just a low, hungry growl. They were on all sides of her, one after another, melding out of the darkness as if they had always been there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then there was a howl behind her low and long, and Irisviel spun around, tripped on her nightgown, and fell to the earth, palms striking the ground hard. There was something coming over the top of the rock, bigger than the other creatures, fur shining white in the moonlight. Two eyes, glowing, ice blue, met Irisviel. The growls of the others cut out, silence descended over the clearing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel was frozen, breath stuck in her throat. Grandfather, she would never see him again. He would be constantly wondering what happened to her, it would break his heart. Gareth, her friend after such a short time, the rest of the knights, they would blame themselves for not stopping her. Merlin, he would be stuck cursing in his tower because the best hope of saving the world was dead. And Arthur? Arthur wouldn’t care, because she was a heartless thing and Irisviel’s plight did not matter to her. Merlin’s spell would fade, and she would be let out to destroy the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Irisviel . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She would not have done anything. She had lived so long in that cottage, for her safety, yes, but it was still a cage. She had just been learning, learning what it was to live outside of it. Yes, Camelot might be a different cage, but it was a cage with people and problems, it was a cage in which she could still do something. Something important, But she couldn’t, because in a few moments she would be dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It rose up in her, burning away the fear, the frozen sensation of being helpless. No. Irisviel, for the first time, was experiencing what it was like to have a real life within the walls of Camelot. She was making a difference, she was finally getting to do something that wasn’t waiting around for life to come knocking at her door. For the first time, she mattered, she could have an impact on the world beyond her little college. She had saved her Grandfather, had stood up to a doll-like King and had made her back down, not once, but multiple times. There was still so much more to do. Was she just going to roll over and let these things devour her?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She broke from the terror, adrenalin burning through her veins, and into that frozen moment of silence, she looked at the towering white furred thing and growled back. It, who had begun to crouch, ready to pounce, stopped in surprise at the sound, as if it had not expected it’s prey to challenge it. Her hands scrambled at her sides, searching for something, a rock, a stick - her hands closed over something hard, she stumbled to her feet, and, screaming, threw it at the creature atop the rock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a one in a million throw, striking it in the eye. It yelped in pain, stumbled back. The things around her, it was simpler to call them wolves, growled in fury, and lunged, a wave of fur and spines and bone. Irisviel twirled, searching desperately for something, anythin -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A movement in the darkness, the flutter of dark cloth, the rush burning energy as something black and purple blew through the wolves, stopping in front of Irisviel. It came in a burst of power, like a flicker of shadow, not there then there, and Irisviel blinked, trying to make sense of what she had just sceen. Many of the wolves were blackened and charred corpses on the ground, but more were waiting at the edges of the woods, and some had escaped that initial burst of energy unscathed. And in front of her, in front of her . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was Arthur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her dark dress was covered up in heavy looking black armor, threaded through with red lines, crawling up her cheeks. Her hair shown pale in the moonlight, her sword was sheathed in that black and purple energy, crackling threateningly. She held herself with power and poise, a dark knight against a pack of twisted wolves. The stool had been right. Arthur had come for her, and in that moment, Irisviel had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her knees folded beneath her, all the energy draining from them, as she stared at the small king in front of her. Arthur had come. Arthur had come. It didn’t seem real, and the wolves didn’t seem to believe it too, shaking their heads, pacing and staring at the figure in black in shock. Then, behind her a howl of fury, Irisviel twisted, turned, and saw death plunging down from above.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King almost didn’t leap in the way, she almost left Irisviel to fend for herself, but Irisviel was not a knight, skilled in the ways of warfare. She was a denizen of Camelot, and the King would always protect those who belonged to her. She twirled around, jumped in front of Irisviel, and swung at the white wolf. It was thrown of course, tossed to the side, but others were coming now, a tide of furious, gleaming teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King fought, stone faced, the twisted form of Excalibur flying in her hands. She noticed out of the corner of her eye Irisviel pushing herself and stumbling back, pressing herself against the towering stone. Good, she would be safer there. The King turned back to the battle, chopping a wolf in half even as another leapt for her throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Troublesome beasts, she should have exterminated them long ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She brought her sword up, the wolf’s head was lopped off. Each stroke of hers was economical, like a logger chopping at a tree or a farmer harvesting wheat. There was no delight in this battle, nothing beautiful that could be drawn from it, nor was it filled with disgust or remorse. It simply was. She continued moving, chopping through her enemies, even as the crowd thinned. Some were fleeing, she would have to go after them again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ARTHUR!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King froze, that name, a name she hadn’t heard in so long, spilling from Irisviel’s lips. Then her instincts screamed and she twirled around. Perhaps before the curse, she might have been able to stop it, but although she was stronger now, she was also slower, so the white wolf's jaws still clamped on her shoulder, ripping through the heavy cloth, breaking into her skin, crunching through bone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was such an odd thing, she hadn’t felt it for so long, it seemed such a foreign concept. But no, that was pain blooming in her shoulder, blood staining the white of the wolf’s muzzle. Her lips twisted slightly, her mana burst from her, a wave of black and purple and red, and the white wolf was thrown from her shoulder, this time managing to regain its feet. The King allowed it no leniency, she followed it, plunged Excalibur into its side, and channeled her mana through it. The wolf howled in pain, tumbled to the ground, sliding off her blade, before collapsing into ash. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turned, but with their alpha’s death, the rest of the pack had fled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were alone in the clearing except for the bodies of the dead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sank to the ground, her knees giving out beneath her. The stone at her back was rough and cold, the trees around clattered and scraped as wind played through their branches. The clearing was still, too still after the chaos from before, and Irisviel was stuck trying to catch her breath, her eyes caught on Arthur’s form. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was standing in the middle of the clearing, her sword held in one hand, blood dripping from it’s blade. Her other arm hung limply at her side, useless, her shoulder bare and bloody, a glimpse of white bone barely visible. Irisviel felt gorge and guilt rise up in her throat, gorge for the bodies and Arthur’s wound, guilt because it was her fault, that injury was her fault. She had seen Arthur’s hesitation when she had called her name, and Irisviel could have cursed herself for that mistake. She shouldn’t have said Arthur. She should have cried out ‘my king’. She licked her lips and swallowed. “My king, you’re . . . you’re bleeding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur moved, a shift in the wind, and Irisviel squeaked, jerking back against the stone as Arthur appeared before her, kneeling overtop of her, sword planted firmly by Irisviel’s side. “You,” she said, and her voice wasn’t empty like it had been before. No, it was filled with the slightest trace of  . . . anger? Arthur leaned forwards, her face inches from Irisviel’s own. “What are you doing here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a sharp breath. There was blood on Arthur’s cheek, dark and oily. Her yellow eyes were fierce and bright, glowing almost hawkish in the night. “I was looking for you, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur’s face flexed, briefly, something passing over it then gone as if it had never been. “Why.” It wasn’t a question, something more akin to a threat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irsviel’s heart was pounding in her throat, her thoughts scattering like leaves on the wind. Arthur had freckles, not real ones, but smudges across her cheeks, like the afterimages of something that had once existed. She swallowed hard, forced her wandering mind to focus. The fight, it was messing with her mind, the remains of fear and adrenaline making her thoughts swirl. “You left,” she heard herself say, as if from very far away, “You left and no one knew where you went and why. I came to find you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re an idiot,” Arthur said, flat and cold, but that trace of anger still present. “The woods are not safe for those not trained in battle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Irisviel said, “but I had to make sure . . .” what? That Arthur didn’t leave to destroy the world? “You came,” she blurted out instead. “You came. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur said nothing, just staring at Irisviel with her yellow eyes, then she said in her cold, truly empty voice. “Who told you that name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel blinked. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who told you that name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, Arthur, she wanted to know who had told Irisviel her name. “Merlin did.” Her hands came together in her lap, she twisted them around and around, watched them as she did so. “Uh, my king, can I ask why you left the castle? Everyone was worried and I . . . I was scared.” She glanced up at Arthur, tried a small smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur’s eyes narrowed a fraction. When she spoke, her breath brushed against Irisviel’s face. “I was hunting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were hunting?” It didn’t seem real. She sucked in a breath, caught the whiff of blood and fire, and something else, something muskier, darker. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, we do not have adequate supplies of meat in the castle.” The faintest frown, she drew back slightly, not far, still present, but Irisviel felt the gap like the loss of an arm. It confused her, that loss, why did she feel it? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because she had not truly expected Arthur to save her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you liked your food not fit for human consumption?” She asked slowly, her hands stilling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do, but there are those in the castle who cannot consume moldy meat. As king, I shall provide for my subjects if there is no one else who can.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. Arthur meant her. Arthur had gone hunting because Irisviel could not eat the meat in the castle. It was almost nice. A glimpse of the human Merlin claimed still laid inside. She ducked her head and smiled. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur pulled back, standing, yanking her sword out of her ground. “Come, I still have to fetch my kills before those wolves sniff them out, and it is not safe for you to wander alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But, my King,” She stumbled to her feet, stared at the arm that hung limply at Arthur’s side. “You’re injured. Should we not go to Camelot first? Or at least bandage it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur glanced at her shoulder, and her face twisted minutely. Disgust, perhaps. “It is but a scratch. Come.” She turned and started walking, and Irisviel had no choice but to follow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King stared at her kill, feeling a momentary pang of . . . something shoot through her. Her eyebrow twitched. “It seems like we are too late.” Her kill, one that would have lasted the two of them at least a month, was nothing but bone and scraps now. There were pawprints around the carcass, just about the size of the remainder of the pack. Fine, if she could not have this, she would have wolf. She turned to Irisviel, “I have to continue my hunt. You will go back to Camelot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared at her with her wide red eyes. She was a mess, her nightgown torn, scratches dotting her arms and face, leaves and twigs stuck in her tangled hair. She leaned on a tree for support, chest heaving, taking deep breaths. She was exhausted, she would not last a full hunt. But still, she lifted her head in defiance, troublesome woman. “My apologies, my king, but I do not know the way back. I lost my way while running from the wolves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King almost frowned, but her words rang true. “You cannot follow me. You will not last the trip.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel glanced away from her, glanced back, playing with a piece of white hair. “You could escort me back? And then we could treat your wound and then you could go hunting again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wound, the King had forgotten, the dull thud of pain had long since disappeared into the background. “There is no time.” The wolves would get away, she would not allow that to happen. They were a danger she should have dealt with long ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Irisviel stepped forwards, “at least let me bandage it. If you don’t, it could get infected.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hmm, she had a point. “Very well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled, something bright and warm, then took quick, shaky steps to the King’s side. The King held still as Irisviel ripped the bottom of her nightgown and got to work. Her fingers were cool as they brushed against the King’s skin, her movements practiced as if she was used to bandaging wounds, but her voice shook when she spoke. “You plan to kill the wolves?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, they are a danger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, but,” she stilled, and the King turned slightly to stare at her. She was biting her lip, trying to figure out what to say. “They won’t hurt anyone if nobody goes into the woods.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was defending them, the things that almost killed her. It did not make sense, how could she, why? This woman, a puzzle to best all puzzles, stubborn and braze, always pushing until it was time to back off, and now kind as well. It was like turning a bolt of cloth, the type Merlin was always so fond of, a different color each time the light struck it, gold then red then purple then orange, one color after another. “Those things almost killed you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They were hungry, and I was easy prey.” Her voice rose, she stilled it. “Look, my king, those wolves, you killed most of their pack, and their alpha. They might have pups! We can’t just orphan the pups!” Her eyes were very wide now, begging, pleading.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Softhearted, another piece to the complex work that was Irisviel. Normally the King would call that softheartedness weakness, but Irisviel stood against the world using that softheartedness as a weapon. It was . . . it was . . . the word slipped from her mind, and she did not care. “I will not kill the pups.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But if you kill the rest of the pack, the pups will starve!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King sucked in a breath, and twisted so she could face Irisviel fully, her mask cold and complete as always. “Silence, I have made my decision. Count yourself lucky, Irisviel, that I do not take your head. You do not question the orders of a king.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel jerked back, hurt flashing across her features. It was the wrong expression. She should have been afraid. She should have been terrified. She lowered her eyes, curtsied with her ripped and frayed nightgown. “Yes, my king.” It was false humility, false subservience, and for a second, the King wanted to take her head, to summon the twisted Excalibur and strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she didn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps because there was something refreshing about the way Irisviel treated her, not as monarch, not as a symbol, not as a monster, but as a person. And perhaps, it was simply because she did not care enough to take her down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Follow, as silently as possible. It is not safe for you here, and we have a while to walk.” And then the King turned and started to track the wolves back to their den.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel fumed. Just when she was thinking that there was truly something salvageable beneath the curse, Arthur pulled this. It was unnecessary! Cruel and Merciless! What had she expected, that Arthur would just leave the wolves alone?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She felt like crying. She felt like curling up and going to sleep, if only Merlin wouldn’t be there in her dreams. But mostly, she wanted to have a bath, to sink into water and clean away the dirt and the twigs and the memory of today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But no, she got none of those things. Instead, she’d been left in a place Arthur swore was safe as long as she didn’t make too much noise. A hollow created by tree roots, a spot where she was invisible to all that passed. She sat there in the dirt, waiting for Arthur to exterminate that pack, to leave their pups to starve. She didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be home. She wanted it so bad, she wanted to be home in her bed with her garden and her books. Yes, she was experiencing life, but the stories had lied, adventures were dirty, blood filled things and she preferred peace to them. Was she happy to be out? Yes. But she missed the security she’d once had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel.” It was Arthur’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, my king?” She hadn’t meant to sound so sullen, but it came out that way anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel debated staying put, but she had seen that flash of anger in Arthur’s eyes earlier. She had pushed enough today, anymore would be dangerous. So she crawled out of the little hollow and shook out her skirts. “What do you need, m -” Her voice froze, she stared in shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur stood there, her one arm still hanging limply, her face cold, her eyes cold as well, but in her one working arm she held a ball of white fur and spines and spars of bone. “Here.” She held the creature out, and numbly, Irisviel took it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was one of the wolves, no, a wolf pup, small and shaking. She held it gently, pulled it to her chest. “My king, I don’t understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur narrowed her eyes, “I have thought over your words and decided. Leaving the pup would be a waste of resources. It would be better to raise it and train it to guard the castle.” She turned to leave, but Irisviel stopped her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does it have a name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur paused, “He does, it is Cavall II. Stay here and do not make a sound. I will be back with the kills.” Then she was gone and Irisviel was left staring at the pup in her arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello Cavall,” she murmured, softly, as a small, trembling smile slipped onto her lips. Arthur was not leaving the pup to die. Perhaps there was something there, something worth saving after all. Yes, she had killed the wolves, but she hadn’t killed the pup, hadn’t left it to starve, and that was a start. Hope burst in her, sharp and sudden, hope that she was right, hope that she could reach Arthur before the spell that held limbo in place truly faded away. “Welcome to Camelot.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Beast Was Injured, and the Daughter Nursed Him Back to Health</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heyyo! First off, thanks for all the comments and kudos, I appreciate ever single one! Here's the next chapter and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel carried Cavall II in her arms, careful not to hurt him. He hadn’t woken yet, but she could feel his sides lift up and down with his breath, the soft fur against her fingers. She looked up to where Arthur dragged the largest wolf carcass behind her one handed, her other arm hanging limply by her side, bandages showing red beneath her torn sleeve. Her face was a mask, empty and devoid of all thoughts and feelings, but Irisviel could still see the image of her holding Cavall against her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picked up her pace, “My king, how old do you think he is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur glanced back at her, yellow eyes flashing as they caught the light. “Not old.” Was it Irisviel’s imagination, or was her voice almost . . . gentle? She almost laughed, Arthur dragged a giant wolf behind her and was covered in blood, and Irisviel was calling her gentle. Shock. She was in shock. This was too much for today. “A month at most.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it normal for a month old . . . wolf to sleep so much?” He had barely stirred in her arms, not even in his sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur looked back at the forest, eyes scanning the trees for enemies. The wolf’s blood smeared against the ground as she walked, and Irisviel resisted the urge to throw up. So much death today, more than she was accustomed to. She didn’t want to get accustomed to it. “There were not any other pups, it is possible that a sickness swept through the pack. Or a bad litter. Things like that happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except this was limbo, and a sickness seemed odd. Although the vegetables and fruits were still alive, so perhaps . . . she sighed. “I hope you’re not planning to have breakfast any time soon, my king, I am exhausted, and will need to wash up first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You may take your break, Irisviel.” Arthur said, “I must tend to the carcass anyway.” Irisviel swallowed hard, looked away, staring at the trees. “It bothers you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stopped and turned to stare at her. “It is the law of the world that the strong overcome the weak.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Then you should have let the wolves have me, my king,” Irisviel said, meeting Arthur’s eyes, “for I am much weaker than any wolf in these woods.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s eyes narrowed faintly, she dropped the carcass, stepped close. “You, Irisviel Von Einsbern, are a member of my court. You belong to Camelot. You belong to me. And I will always defend what is mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a sharp breath, swallowed and smiled slightly. “That’s good to know, my king. Do those words include Cavall too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stepped back, picked up the wolf again. “Yes, it does.” Then she turned, walking towards where Camelot could be seen distantly through the trees, Irisviel following behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The castle was strangely empty, and Irisviel didn’t figure out why until she entered her room, Cavall still in her arms. It was filled, not of the people she hadn’t met, but those she had, Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Mordred, Sir Bedivere, Gareth, and, to her surprise, the stool. She sighed heavily, it seemed she wouldn’t be getting her break just yet. “The King is back in the castle. She’s in the pantry currently, cutting up her kill if anyone wants to see her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, silence, then all at once they were speaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her kill?” It was Sir Gawain, sharp and surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady,” Sir Bedivere, “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Gareth, flapping her doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What's in your hands?” Sir Mordred, almost too loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that blood?” Lancelot, his voice soft and slightly quavering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Explain,” the stool barked it out, sharp and sudden, and Irisviel almost did explain, but she levelled her gaze on the stool instead, eyes tired but fierce.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will, as soon as you all move out of the way so I can set Cavall down. And as soon as I get a name for you.” A general shuffling, Irisviel made her way towards her bed, set Cavall gently on the blankets. What did wolf pups eat? Meat? Milk? She felt sick and tired and drained, her head swirling in a dozen directions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies,” the stool said, “I am Sir Kay, the King's older brother. Now please, tell us what happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisveil sat as if her strings had been cut, a puppet with no master. She laid her hand on Cavall’s side, stroked him gently. “The King went out hunting today, for fresh meat because ours was spoiled.” The meat spoiled, Merlin’s flowers grew, wolves got sick and died, vegetables and fruits still bloomed. Irisviel was starting to think the only thing that was truly limbo about limbo was that the night never changed and it was separated from the real world. Less a place out of time and more a pocket dimension of sorts. She almost laughed, who was she to know? Just a country girl who’d read a lot of books. “When I started searching for her, a wolf pack found me. The King saved my life. Then, then she,” she covered her mouth, closed her eyes, “when she found that they had eaten her previous kill, she hunted them down and slaughtered them. All except for this pup.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence, then Sir Kay spoke, “She saved the pup?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel nodded, “Brought him to me and told me his name was Cavall II.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stool sighed, a rush of air. “That is odd for the current King. Too . . .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lenient,” Lancelot supplied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel sighed, pushing her hair back. “I don’t know what to do. What do wolf pups eat? Cavall has been sleeping the whole time I’ve had him! And, and Ar - the King is injured! Badly, on her shoulder, a bite mark, and it was bleeding heavily and -” Her voice was rising, higher and higher, quicker and quicker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Gareth interrupted, her voice smooth and warm. Calming. “We’ll figure something out. You go get washed and get dressed. Take a break. The rest of you, out, give her time. We’ll discuss this later.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The King hung up the salted flanks of the wolf, her shoulder twitching with the movement. She could not stop, would not stop. She had things to do, paperwork to finish after this. A king's job was never done. Her stomach growled, a faint thing, but still, the sound . . . how odd, when was the last time her stomach had growled? She stepped back, and left the pantry, letting the door swing shut behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel was at the table, a kit and a bottle  in front of her, head pillowed on her arms. She’d cleaned up, the twigs and leaves were  gone from her hair, the smears of dirt no longer on her skin. The King softened her steps, Irisviel was a brave thing, brave to stand up to her, brave to stand up to the wolves. A brave thing, yes, but foolish too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel’s eyes blinked open, the mumbled “My king?” could barely be heard. The King stopped, watched Irisviel as she straightened and scrubbed at her eyes, yawning loudly. “Where are you going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was none of her concern. “My study.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But your bandages,” another yawn, “they need to be replaced.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Artoria glanced down, stared at the bloom of red on her shoulder. Irisviel was right, they were sopping wet, and who knew what had been in the jaws of that wolf? It would make sense to take care of the wound, her duties could wait. “Where is Cavall II?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My room, Sir Mordred’s watching over him. He was very excited about the prospect of a trained wolf. Will you please sit, my king?” A tiny smile, soft and unsure. “I’ve got a bottle of alcohol I'd like to pour on your wound, and more bandages.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King could see that, clear as day, on the table in front of her. The kit would have the bandages, perhaps needle and thread. She considered for a moment, then sat. “You know a great deal about cleaning wounds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had to deal with mine most of my life,” Irisviel answered, voice soft as she began to unravel the bloodied bandage. “I will admit that none of them are on the level of this, but I am a fair hand at patching them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your grandfather.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Travelling, selling his potions, he wasn’t home often. I don’t blame him,” Irisviel shrugged, ruby eyes focused on her work, “Selling and making potions is the only way he knows how to make money.” She giggled slightly, a tired thing, “truth be told, your majesty, most of them are fake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d left her alone to fend for herself. He should not have done that. “A fraudster and a trespasser. I should have killed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad you did not,” Irisviel’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, “This will sting a bit, my king.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not care.” Iriviel opened the vial of alcohol, splashed it against her shoulder. The King’s face didn’t twist at the sharp burst pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think this will need stitches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do them, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My king,” she hesitated, as if afraid. It was a false front, the King doubted Irisviel knew the meaning of fear, or if she did, she took no heed of it. She would not be here, in Camelot, by the King’s side, otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not know how to take care of wolves, and none of the other knights know either. Do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cavall II, she was talking about Cavall II, and the King’s eyes narrowed just a bit. She knew how to train dogs, but Cavall was still young, and the King had her duties to attend to. “I’m giving you access to the library.” Irisviel made a sharp, sudden sound, an intake of breath, and the King twisted slightly to look at her. Her ruby eyes had grown large, surprise and delight shining in their depths. “The information you are looking for should be in there.” As well as enough knowledge to keep her entertained and happy for centuries. For some reason, the thought was . . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a library?” Barely repressed glee in her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I will show you after you finish treating the wound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, my king.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King did not reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stool, a candlestick, a clock, and a teapot watched the interaction from outside the kitchen door with bated breath. “What is going on?.” Sir Gawain hissed, disbelief in his voice. He was standing on the ground, having declined Sir Kay’s offer of a ride. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe it.” Lancelot whispered, awed and breathless. “I don’t believe it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” and Sir Bedivere’s voice was threaded through with delight, “I told you she was in there! I told you King Arthur was in there!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It could be a mishap,” Sir Gawain growled, “It could be a mistake, a slip, something, we don’t want to get our hopes up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Lancelot said, “Sir Bedivere’s right. Leaving the wolf pup alive, bridging it with her, going hunting for Lady Irisviel, letting her tend to her wounds, showing her the library. Don’t you get it? She’s putting Lady Irisviel above her kingly duties!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” and Sir Gawain's voice was dark and bitter, “like you know what the King is thinking. You’re the one who put us on this path! Do you honestly think that Morgana would have found a way in if you hadn’t slept with the Queen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sharp silence, and the candlestick visibly wilted. “I - we never wanted to hurt her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah, because you did such a great job of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir Gawain,” Sir Kay’s voice, sharp and angry, “This is not the time. You’ve had centuries to clear up the bad blood between you two, do not dredge it up now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all know that Morgana would have figured out a way to do this anyway.” Sir Bedivere murmured, “do not blame Lancelot for that.” Sir Gawain stayed silent, while Lancelot looked away, flames shifting uneasily. “Anyway,” Sir Bedivere continued, “I do not think the King sees it as we do. She probably believes that her actions are within her duties.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, she does.” Sir Kay felt silent, and for a while they watched Irisviel sew the King’s shoulder together, a look of concentration on her face, while the King sat with her mask up, her eyes staring at nothing. “But do you honestly think that the King, as she is now, would ever let anyone else but herself treat her wounds? Let anyone else see her vulnerable like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” It fell from Sir Gawain’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” Sir Kay could feel something building, a plan, the faint outlines of one. “Sir Bedivere, how is Sir Tristan doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not well, I fear that he blames himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if you told him that he could fix this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Irisviel followed Arthur as she walked through the halls, the black cloth of her dress catching the light with every movement. A library, a real library, with books and stories and knowledge beyond her wildest dreams. Suddenly this day was looking up, and Irisviel couldn’t keep a smile off her face. What types of books would it contain? She couldn’t imagine . . . she giggled, delighted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This makes you happy.” Arthur’s voice, cold as always, and Irisviel glanced at her face. Her eyes were focused forwards, her mouth in a neutral line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very much so, your majesty. Do you read?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For fun, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed the slightest bit. “I have no time for pleasure reading.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a shame, you should try it some time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not have time for it.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Somehow, Irisviel doubted that. Paperwork couldn’t come from nowhere, and the denizens of Camelot couldn’t have put in any complaints or anything recently. Someone was making her paperwork to do. Irisviel wondered who it was, and why. “Perhaps, if you can ever take the time off, come read with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stopped, turned to look at her, “You shall not abandon your other duties.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Then she was turning and pushing open two large doors. They swung open with a bang and a cloud of dust, and Irisviel gasped at the sight. Bookshelves lined the walls, up and up, filled with volumes and volumes. How? Did it matter? She stepped inside, feeling like she was floating, feet skipping over the stone floor. “My King,” words failed her, she swallowed, tried again, “thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are welcome, Irisviel.” And then in a flutter of dark skirts, she was gone, and Irisviel was left alone in wonderland.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shout out to LazyKatie for figuring out who the stool was.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Beast Gave the Daughter the Library</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thanks so much for your comments and kudos! I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel, as much as she wanted to, did not spend her day in the library. She took out a couple of books on dog training and a story book, then retreated to the kitchens, ready to make their late breakfast. The objects . . . err, people, she did meet where quiet and thoughtful, letting her cook and garden and read in peace. Sir Mordred was still with Cavall and Gareth in her room, Sir Bedivere was in the kitchens with her, Sir Kay and Sir Gawain and Lancelot were nowhere to be seen. She made an easy brunch, and even though she left Arthur’s food burnt and bad as normal, she made sure not to do it too overboard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things were looking up, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometime after dinner, the King was in her office, working through the reports of the day. She couldn’t focus, words blurring before her, quill limp in hands, not sure why her mind was scattered and fuzzy like this. She was the King, and as King, she couldn’t afford distractions, she needed to get her head into gear and continue on with her work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t, just sat there and stared at the paper, certain that something was off. She couldn’t place it though, and that, that made her . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door opened, light spilling into the semi-dark room, and Irisviel stuck her head through, white locks shining in the dim light. “My King, if I may?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come in.” She set the quill down, ignored Agraiven’s hiss of disapproval.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stepped through, skirts flaring as she walked, book held delicately in one hand, and dropped into a curtsy. “I wanted to let you know that Cavall has awoken and has been fed. He’s taken quite a shine to Sir Mordred too.” Her lips pulled into a slight smile. “They are amusing to watch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” The King said, “very well. Is there something else you needed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel tipped her head, hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “My king, is it okay if I read in here? I would read somewhere else, but every time I try, someone starts to interrupt me.” Annoyance in her voice, well hidden in her smooth tones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” Agraiven whispered harshly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well,” The King said, dipping her head in acknowledgement, “as long as you can stay quiet and not interrupt my work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel beamed at her, bright and shining and wondrous, “Thank you, my king.” She dropped into one of the chairs, cracked open the book, and began to read. The King turned back to her paperwork, picked the quill up again, squeezing it tightly between her fingers. She was his king, Agraiven would do well to remember that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turned out that Irisviel wasn’t very good at being not distracting. Oh, she was quiet enough, and didn’t bother the King while she worked, and the only sound that filled the room was their breath and the shuffle of papers. Perhaps that was what was distracting though, Irisviel’s quiet peacefulness contrasted harshly with the annoyance Agraiven was radiating. It shouldn’t have mattered though, she was the King, she should be able to focus on her duties despite the warring personalities at work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So why couldn’t she focus?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glanced up, to where Irisviel sat in her seat. She’d thrown her legs over the armrest, had a pillow wedged between her back and the other. Her shining hair had been pushed half haphazardly past her shoulders, but a few strands escaped to frame her face. Her ruby eyes were scanning the page, shining brightly with delight. She glanced up, met the King's gaze with a smile, then turned back to her book, the smile still traced faintly across her lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A puzzle, she was, with pieces that didn’t seem to fit together. The King set the quil down, ignoring the token protest. “What is the world like now, Irisviel?” She needed to know, if Irisviel’s grandfather did come back with an army behind him, she would need to know the weapons they carried, the strategies they used. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel glanced at her again, and something flashed in her eyes, dark and quick and hidden. “I’m not sure what life was like in your age, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sickness and war and famine, everywhere the King had looked. Enemies amassing on her borders, monsters and mythical creatures who believed her people to be a fine meal, subjects so frail they could be knocked over with a puff of air, but still stubbornly clinging to life. A dangerous time, where only the strong survived. “Not like yours, I assume. Tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Peaceful,” she said, her voice soft and unsure, and the King wondered if that uncertainty was true or not. Irisviel was a fine woman, friendly and kind, certainly the people of her village would have been happy to share gossip, certainly bards and traders would have vied to give her news. “There aren’t many attacks, or at least none that I have heard about. Occasionally there will be bandits or wolf packs or some dangers, but mostly its just people living their lives, one day at a time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But that is not all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel glanced away, fingers playing with the edge of her book. “In truth, my king, I don't really know. I didn’t leave the house much.” The words were said quietly, with the faintest trace of bitterness, and something in the King twisted at the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel was not meant to be coped up inside, that much was certain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” the King said, dropping the subject for now. She would find out more as needed. “You may return to your book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Flowers, their heady scent in the air, dancing in the breeze, dipping and swaying with each gust of wind. In the distance, Merlin’s tower floated, but Irisviel wasn’t going there tonight. They could talk outside, within the sea of flowers, underneath the pastel sky, so different from the dark woods surrounding Camelot. So she sat, skirts pooling around her, and let the events of the day run through her mind, sink in fully. It had started off so bad, so sour, yet had ended on a promising note. That at least, was true enough.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There was something of the past Arthur within the current one. There had to be. She couldn’t be imagining things.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Come on,” Merlin’s voice, whiny and annoyed, and Irisviel looked up to see the wizard trudging through the flowers. “You should have just come to the tower.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“The walk is good for you,” she said, almost gently. She was in a good mood now, she could deal with Merlin’s complaints.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king, you really shouldn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The wizard collapsed in front of her, made a face. “No, I’m quite certain it’s not. How are things going?” He sounded a bit desperate, as if they were running out of time. Then again, they were running out of time. This would have been so much easier if she’d known how much time was left.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“She went hunting today,” Irisviel said, running her fingers through the flowers. They were calming, and she wondered if that was why Merlin liked them so. “Didn’t tell anyone, so I woke up to everyone panicking. Went after her, got attacked by a wolf pack, got saved by her, she killed the whole wolf pack except for their pup, came back to Camelot. Patched her wounds, she gave me access to the library, cooked and gardened, then read in her office because no one else would give me the quiet I needed.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sounds busy.” Merlin said, smirking, “She gave you the library, you say?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Silence. It is the King’s duty to take care of her subjects.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For a moment, the world wavered, flickering before Irisviel’s eyes. She straightened, glanced around, “What was that?”</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Relax,” Merlin said, flapping a hand, “You’re not really asleep right now, just dozing. I took the opportunity to hijack your consciousness.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You what?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Like I said, chill,” he shrugged, “and tell me, the library, huh?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel took a deep breath. She could not hit Merlin, well, she could, but it would be a very bad idea to hit Merlin. Probably a bad idea. A very tempting bad idea. “Yes, the library. The wolf, she named him Cavall II, needs to be trained, so she gave me access to the books to do it. Says she’s too busy to do it herself.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin made a face, “Too busy doing what? It’s been hundreds of years, she should be out of paperwork by now.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s what I thought,” she sighed, “but apparently not. She was doing paperwork while I was in her office. I -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arms, slim and cold to the touch. Irisviel stirred, a voice, something that could have been gentle if it wasn’t so empty. “Sleep, Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“-body’s been at the paperwork, writing up false things for her to do, false complaints, false problems. I bet it’s Agraiven, he’s a sour old thing, and he’s hung up on what a king’s supposed to be doing. He’d probably fake paperwork. Irisviel?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel shook her head, “No, it’s nothing, you’re probably right.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Aww man,” Merlin whined, making another face, “Now we have our own allies working against us. Will this never end?!” He threw himself back against the flowers dramatically, back of his hand pressed against his forehead.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Could he have been the traitor?” Irisviel asked, leaving him to his dramatics.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” he waved his hand dismissively, “Agraiven’s a sourpuss, but he’s dedicated to Arthur.” He sighed, “you’ll have to stop him. You can hardly seduce Arthur if she’s tied up with paperwork.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel squirmed, “I told you already, I’m not going to seduce her!” She tried to get the image of Arthur out of her head, after she’d saved Irisviel from the wolves, her cold eyes, the ghosts of freckles dotted across her cheeks. She sighed, pressing her hands against her cheeks. They felt warm, hot against her cold fingers. Figured. “But you’re right, I’ll have to get him to stop somehow.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Just chuck him out the window,” Merlin said, “he’ll get lost among the flowers. Never be seen again. People will stop you in the halls to thank you.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She giggled, a bright sound. “No, I can’t do that.” She hesitated, “Hey, Merlin, is Arthur really her name?” It had been bothering her, Arthur, a name like an ill fitting glove, the person she’d been trying to become. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin rolled onto his side, stared at her with his utterly inhuman eyes. “No, her name is Artoria.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel sucked in a breath at the sound. Artoria. It fit her, the woman in the painting, it fit her. Both strong and delicate, dangerous and delightful, like a song in making, a note held impossibly long. Artoria. It almost fit the King to, the almost softness in her decisions despite her cold explanations for her actions. Artoria. The name of both a girl and a king, rare and powerful and beautiful to behold. “Artoria,” she mouthed the word, feeling the way her lips shaped it. She liked the feeling, it was way better than my king or Arthur could ever be.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin watched her with knowing eyes, a sly smile on his lips.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel woke in the darkness, cocooned in warmth. She pushed herself up, yawning slightly, blankets pooling about her waist. Blankets? That was odd, her last clear recollection was of reading in Artoria’s office, glancing at the king while she worked. She looked around, sleep still tugging at her limbs, and her eyes fell on a white ball of fur curled up at her side. Cavall, chest heaving with every breath, paws twitching in his sleep, with Sir Mordred leaning slightly against his side, snoring as if he was trying to bring the room down on top of them. Irisviel covered her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress a giggle, and continued to scan the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There, on the table beside her bed, laid her book, a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Beast and the Daughter Grew Closer Together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey ya'll, thanks so much for your comments and kudos, I appreciate every one! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day! Stay safe!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Sit, Cavall,” Irisviel said, staring down at the wolf pup, whose white fur was spattered with dirt and leaves and the remains of Merlin’s flowers. He’d been helping her rescue the rosebushes, digging up Merlin’s pesky, moon touched, dancing flowers as she worked within the roses. She hadn’t been able to find proper gloves, although there had to be some somewhere, so she’d gone at them with bare hands alone. The result? Blood dotted hands, light scratches covering the backs and fingers and some of her arms as well. But the outcome was worth it, together they had managed to clear out a good third of the rose garden, and now it was time for a break and some training. “Sit, Cavall,” she repeated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cavall titled his head, tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail wagging. It had been a day or so since the hunting incident, and Cavall still stumbled on the most basic of commands. If Irisviel had to guess, it was a mix of lack of experience on both sides, but still, they persevered. “Sit, Cavall,” she repeated for the third time, and this time the pup sat, tail beating against the flowers. “Good boy,” She cooed, bending over to give him his treat, a bit of salted meat she’d taken from the kitchens this morning. “Yes you are, you’re a good boy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d never had a dog before, and even though Cavall was a wolf, Irisviel figured the experience was close enough to count. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel,” a cold voice, empty and devoid, Artoria’s voice. Irisviel stood and half turned to see her striding this way, pale blond hair turned silver in the moonlight, light coating her cheeks and catching in her pale eyes. Her dress’s silver embroidery caught the light with every movement, Merlin’s flowers too soft and pretty against the harsh darkness of the fabric. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel turned all the way and curtsied, “My King, what brings you all the way out here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria, and how Irisviel couldn’t help but linger on the syllables in her mind, stepped closer, “How is the training going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel straightened. “It’s going, my king. We are both new to this, so, that’s all I can really tell you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Artoria knelt in the flowers, dark dress pooling around her, reaching out a hand towards Cavall. “Come, Cavall.” It was said in a tone that brooked no argument, and the wolf, tail wagging slowly, approached. He sniffed her hand, then gave it a lick. Something happened to Artoria’s expression, nothing obvious, but a slight softening of the eyes, perhaps the barest hint of a smile, and Irisviel’s breath caught in her throat. She must have made some noise, because Artoria glanced at her, her gaze landing on Irisviel’s blood dotted hands. Any softness in her eyes disappeared, she straightened, reached out and took Irisviel’s hand with a gentleness that belied the blankness of her face. Her fingers trailed over Irisviel’s skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a jagged breath, “Nothing, your majesty. I was simply pulling up the flowers from around the roses. I couldn’t find any gloves, so I went at it bare handed.” She gave her a small, quavering smile, trying to ignore the sensation of Artoria’s cold fingers against her skin. It was impossible to ignore, she was so cold, as if she’d been doused in ice. It was hard not to reach out and catch her hands in Irisviel’s own, to try to warm those icy fingers up somehow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s yellow eyes flicked up to meet her, blank as always, “Go treat these scratches, Irisviel. You do not want them to become infected.” She let go of her hands, stepped back, “I will take care of Cavall’s training as you do so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, my king,” Irisviel murmured, curtsying deeply before running off towards the castle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King looked down at Cavall, the wolf pup looked back up at the king, wagging his tail excitedly. “I do not have any treats,” she said, “but you shall follow my orders anyway.” The wolf gave her a look, tilting his head, eyes wide. “Sit, Cavall.” Nothing. The pup still stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Sit, Cavall,” she said again in her cold voice, the one that brooked no arguments from anyone. Cavall sat, tail stilling, staring up at her, waiting for his treat. “Good boy,” she murmured, bending down to give his ears a scratch. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Camelot was quiet today, just as it had been yesterday. Sir Bedivere and Sir Mordred were missing from the kitchens, Sir Kay, Sir Gawain and Lancelot were nowhere to be seen. It gave Irisviel the perfect opportunity to do what needed to be done. She patched her scrapes quickly, washing the blood from her skin before wrapping her hands up in a light covering of bandages. Then, instead of heading back towards the garden, she walked further into Camelot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Towards Artoria’s study.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been the first time Artoria had left the room besides meal times and her hunting trip, and Irisviel had a feeling that Sir Agravien, unlike the rest of the knights, wouldn’t have gone up and disappeared. No, he would be writing more false reports for Artoria to deal with, wasting valuable time that could be put to other things, like breaking the curse. And now, now Irisviel finally had a chance to put a stop to his meddling, without chucking him through the window, of course.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stopped outside the heavy wooden door, listening carefully. There, faintly, a soft scratching sound that might have been a quill against paper. Good, he’d be caught in the act. Gently, Irisviel eased the door open. The scratching stopped, a voice, cold, not as cold as Artoria’s, “My king? I did not expect you back so soon.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Nope,” Irisviel said, slipping inside, shutting the door behind her. “Not your king.” She smiled at the quill, standing erect onto a sheet of paper, ink staining the white parchment, “We need to talk, Sir Agraiven.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, Lady Irisviel,” it wasn’t quite a sneer, but it was close enough, “You’re not allowed in here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nonsense, I’ve been allowed in here the past few afternoons.” She stepped forwards, towards the desk, dress rustling with the movement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Against the King’s better judgment,” the quill hissed, darting across the page, a line of ink trailing after it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Irisviel asked, lunging forwards, hands snapping around the escaping quill. She straightened, sat down in Artoria’s chair, ignoring the uncomfortably hard back and seat,  “she didn’t seem to mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Sir Agraiven growled, struggling in her hands, “You’ll mess up my barbs!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stood, made her way from Artoria’s chair to her own, “Such a shame about the barbs,” she said, “I’ll straighten them up later. So, about what we needed to talk about-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quill stilled, “I’m not talking to you about anything, lady,” he hissed, venom coating each word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rude,” Irisviel sat down, “and here I was thinking you knights were supposed to be polite. Oh well. Anyway, Merlin told me about the curse, about what will happen if limbo fails and Ar-the King gets out. About what she’ll do to the world and what she’ll unleash.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he now.” The quill gritted out, “Useless mage, spilling our secrets to strangers at a drop of a hat. That matter is for the denizens of Camelot to address and the denizens of Camelot alone! You can but out!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I can’t, it’s my world that will be destroyed if limbo falls. Besides,” she added, as if in an afterthought, “the King has already claimed me as part of her court. She told me so after she saved me from the wolves. Her exact words, I believe, were,” she tried to emulate Artoria’s cold tones, “‘You, Irisviel Von Einsbern, are a member of my court. You belong to Camelot. You belong to me. And I will always defend what is mine.’” She smiled at the quill, “So you see, Sir Agraiven, I am part of this court, therefore the King’s curse is connected to me. And I am going to break it, with or without your help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Sir Agraiven said, disgust dripping with every word, “So you’ll seduce her then? I doubt you’ll be able to. The King focuses on nothing but Camelot, as a king should.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel could feel the heat flare across her face. “No!” Her voice rose, with effort, she wrestled it down, “I’m not going to seduce her, why does everyone automatically leap to that conclusion? I’m not -” She took a deep breath, let it out, “The curse is broken if the King has a heart, that is what Merlin told me. Well, I’m simply trying to prove that she can care, that she does have a heart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“By seducing her.” Sir Argaiven stated dryly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel squeaked, mortified, “No! Why does - ah, I’m trying to be her friend. People care about their friends. But you, Sir Agraiven, are making that very difficult to do! Because she’s almost alway in here filing false reports, because you are obsessed with what kings are supposed to do!” Stony silence met her outburst, and she took a couple more deep breaths. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. But the point is, what you’re doing is counteracting what I’m trying to do. I need you to stop, please, otherwise I’m afraid I won’t be able to reach her completely before limbo fails and she destroys the world.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” and the voice was coldly angry, “I either help you of my own good will, on the off chance that you might be able to reach any remnants of King Arthur that might possibly still exist within the King, on the faint hope that this might break her curse and save the world?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, yes,” Irisviel admitted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Agraiven said, “Your plan is stupid. The King is heartless, no longer plagued by the doubts she had before the curse. She is a true king now, in every sense of the word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And something in Irisviel broke, sending something painful jarring through her heart. “No longer plagued by the doubts she had before the curse, huh?” And she thought of Artoria in the painting, the loneliness hidden in her eyes, how much damage she had to have been doing to herself by trying so hard to be nothing but Arthur. She stood, something icy writhing through her veins, and when she spoke again, it was cold. Not like Artoria’s cold voice, flat and emotionless, but cold like frost and ice and snow, the deepest, darkest winter nights. “Shame, Sir Agraiven. You know, Merlin told me that you wouldn’t listen, that I should chuck you in the garden where you would never be found. But I would hate for your poor barbs to get any more messed up then they already are, and the King is in the garden currently, she might see. However, there is something else that might suit you, so listen close, Sir Agraiven, because it will even serve the King. Cavall, you know, is young, he’ll be entering his teething stage soon. I could give you to him, to keep him from chewing up the furniture and the King’s shoes.” She walked over to the desk, stood beside it, staring at the quill in her hands, “Or, you could stop writing up false reports, stop hindering Artoria’s progress. It’s your choice, you know.” She set the quill down onto the table gently, smoothing out the barbs of the feathers. “So, Sir Agraiven, what shall it be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a long time, silence, heavy and still, then Sir Agraiven spoke, slowly, each word dragged out, “I will cease working on the reports, Lady Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled, and it wasn’t her normal cheerful smile, it was as cold as her voice, as freezing as a shard of ice. “Good, Sir Agraiven, very good. I’m glad we could reach this agreement.” She left the desk’s side, walked to the door, cracked it open. She turned, “Oh, and one more thing, I know how fast she goes through those reports. If she’s not done by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll know that you haven’t upheld your part of the deal.” She smiled again, that cold, frosty smile, “Thank you for your time, Sir Agraiven, I would like to say I enjoyed our little talk, but no, I didn’t.” Then she was gone, the door closing shut behind her, leaving the quill alone in Artoria’s study.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel walked out into the moonlight, the shard of ice that had been lodged in her throat melting slowly. She couldn’t believe she had done that, couldn’t believe it, but Agraiven had known. He had known about Artoria’s loneliness, about her doubts, about her struggles, and instead of helping her, instead of reaching out to her, he’d let her struggle, let her doubt, because he was obsessed with what a king was supposed to be, and a king was not supposed to be helped. It made her furious, a cold, freezing type of fury, to know that he had known and not done anything. And only now was that frozen fury draining away, a lingering chill left in its wake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She took a deep breath of the night air, heady with the scent of flowers, and shook her head, plastering a smile onto her face as if she hadn’t just threatened a quill with the fate of being a wolf pup’s chew toy. Then, she continued out towards the rose bushes, shoulders back, composed and cheerful, until, finally, the rose bushes were in view. Her smile faltered, her feet drifted to a standstill, she stood there, frozen, staring in surprise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria was kneeling on the ground again, her dress a pool of darkness in the pale blooms of Merlin’s flowers. The moonlight struck her hair and face, picking up each strand of hair, making it seem as if her skin was giving off it’s own soft glow. Her yellow eyes were trained on Cavall before her, who lay on his back, paws jutting awkwardly into the air, tail whipping from side to side, sending blooms flying with each pass. She was scratching his stomach and chest, leaning forwards on her other hand, hidden by the flowers. Her face had that almost expression again, a maybe softening of the eyes, a maybe smile on her lips, something that might have been a  positive emotion hidden in the planes of her face and the lines of her eyebrows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the briefest of moments, Irisviel was annoyed at Cavall, annoyed that he was making more progress then she was. But no, this was good, better than good. This was . . . this was . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria looked up, that almost expression still on her face. She did not recoil as if she’d been doing something wrong, she did not explain, of course not, she was the King after all, and kings did not show shame or embarrassment or explain what they did. “Irisviel,” she said, “you were gone for quite some time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel swallowed hard, then forced herself to move again, feet almost tripping, seeming to catch on imaginary roots and rocks. “My apologies, your majesty.” She said, licking her lips nervously, “I was delayed.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well,” Artoria pushed herself to her feet, one smooth, rippling movement, hinting at the power she held within her small frame. “I have reports to do, Irisviel. I will see you later.” The almost expression fell from her face, leaving that blank, indifferent mask in its place. She left, moving quickly through the flowers, back towards the remains of Camelot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel allowed herself a shaky breath. “Come, Cavall.” Immediately, a white shape, bounding towards her through the flowers. She fell to her knees, gave him a few rigorous scratches behind his ears and passed him a treat. “Good boy,” she murmured to the night and the flowers and the moon above, Artoria’s almost expression stuck in her mind, “Very good boy.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Inhabitants of the Castle Planned a Ball . . .</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I would like to say thank you everyone who has commented or left kudos! I treasure each one. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The King moved through her reports, barely conscious of the dwindling stack of papers. Sir Agraiven shook slightly in her fingers, splattering ink across the page. This hadn’t been the first time, more than one of the reports were dotted with extraneous bits of the dark substance. “Sir Agraiven,” she said, as empty as always, “cease your shaking.” He was scared, uncertain of something, although of what, she did not know. Nor did she care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quill stilled slightly, and the King almost frowned down at it. Her stack of reports was indeed dwindling. How odd, for the longest time it seemed like it might never end. Yet there it was, the smooth grain of wood beneath the papers, seen for the first time in forever. Impossible, but there nonetheless. If she could have felt, it might have been . . . something. Disappointed maybe. Relieved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king?” Irisviel asked, looking up from her book, “Is everything alright?” She was curled up in her chair, feet tossed over one armrest, back against the other, a pillow wedged between the two. She’d pulled her hair back today, white strands falling from the messy bun to frame her face. There was a smear of dirt across her cheek, and her dress, a dark red one that clung to her form, caught the light as she pushed herself forwards slightly. Her ruby eyes were very wide, focused on the King’s own. “You looked . . .” she trailed off and sighed, plopping back against the pillow. “Everything is alright, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cavall, who lay curled up at the foot of Irisviel’s chair, looked up, tilting his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, Irisviel.” There was no reason why it shouldn’t be. She was simply finishing her work. As all kings must. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled, “That’s good!” She returned to her book, tucking a lock of hair behind her ears, her smile still lingering on her lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King turned back her reports, setting the finished one aside and starting the next. Four left, maybe five. It felt  . . . it was wrong. What was a king without work? What was a king without duties? The almost frown returned as she scanned through the lines, tapping the quill against the desk, headless of the ink that stained the wood. But kings, the best kings, finished their work. A king's work was never done. Yet here she was, reaching the end. Her words, her thoughts, they were not making sense. How could it be both? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel flipped the page of her book, giggling slightly, and the King looked up. She sat there, utterly human with her hands still marred by the roses’ ministrations, dirt smeared on her cheeks  and caught in her hair and ingrained under her fingernails. Utterly, entirely human. Moving, breathing, living in a way the other denizens of Camelot were not. They were bookcases and stools and teapots and candlesticks, clocks and cabinets and harps and halberds. They could not make trouble, file complaints, beg for new lands in their current forms. Of course she had worked through what had already been submitted, there was nothing replacing them after all. But Irisviel was different, she cooked, she cleaned, she worked in the garden. She trained Cavall, and read, and laughed. She was brave and foolish and polite, and as a denizen of this castle, she would have her problems that would need to be attended to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King’s work would not be done as long as Irisviel lived.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And this time, the expression that crossed the King's face was not an almost frown, but an almost smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel stood in front of the finished painting, staring up at Artoria and Guinevere. “Any news?” Merlin asked from where he lay, splayed out across the floor, eyes boring into the ceiling.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Artoria finished her reports today,” Irisviel said, finally turning from the portrait and moving over to sit by the window and the field of flowers beyond it. Her eyes drifted back to the portrait, the look on Artoria’s face and the hidden loneliness in her eyes. “The knights have continued to be conspicuously absent. Gareth's choices in clothes continue to become more eye-catching, and I’m almost finished digging your flowers out of the rose bushes.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Perish the thought.” Merlin said sarcastically. He pushed himself up, fixed Irisviel with his technicolor eyes, “You’ve adjusted.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Irisviel shrugged, “I guess I have.” She took a deep breath, feeling the air of Avalon infuse her lungs. “I guess I have.” She repeated, a bit softer, the words hanging in the air.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Bedivere, has Sir Tristan agreed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Sir Kay, he has.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, Lancelot, how have your preparations been going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Smoothly, Sir Kay. Sir Gawain has been most . . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Helpful, he means helpful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“HAH! The day Sir Gawain is helpful is the day he doesn’t burn what he cooks!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look here you ungrateful little brat -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Gareth?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She says she’s almost ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she awoke that morning, Irisviel felt tired, as if she hadn’t managed any sleep that night. But she had, and Merlin had been almost palatable, but her limbs still trembled slightly, and her breath rattled in her throat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then another, then another. “Irisviel,” Gareth’s voice, worried. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” She said, a bit weakly, “I’m fine. Just tired.” And a bit clammy, and her bones ached, and her head felt fuzzy and indistinct. But that was all. Slowly, she pushed herself out of bed, made her way to her bag, and pulled out a vial. It’s sides glinted in the light, the liquid within almost transparent. She opened it, and drank. She would be fine. She just felt, off, that was all. She set the vial on the table, where ten more sat. A ring of empty glass, sides glittering faintly, residue beading on the bottoms. She turned, headed towards, Gareth. “Well, what do you want me to wear today, my friend?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gareth’s doors flapped, sudden and certain, “Well, I was thinking . . .”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Out of habit, the King went to her study. Only to stop, staring at the empty desk and the stack of completed reports. Right, that was right. She had finished that work, now she just had to . . . do what? If she could have felt something, it might have been lost. Rudderless, without direction. But no, she had something she could focus on. Sir Bedivere sat in the middle of the floor, rocking back and forth nervously. “Sir Bedivere,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding, and the teapot jumped at the sound, “what do you want.” A command instead of a question. An order instead of a request. For some reason, the sound of it made her surer of her actions. She was king, and as such, she could not be disappointed for finishing her work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surer?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Disappointed?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She almost blinked, almost reeled, but she stopped herself just in time. She was the King. Kings did not have emotions. They were cold, empty things. That fleeting sense of . . . something must have been her imagination.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, my King.” Sir Bedivere said, hopping around so he could face her. “Lady Irisviel has been here for almost two weeks now, and we have yet to offer her the extent of our hospitality. The other knights and I have been talking -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wrong, your duty is to serve me, not to speak.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Bedivere shrunk back, “Of course, my king. If I may continue?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We believe that we should show Lady Irisviel our thanks for what she has done. A . . . party of sorts. Of course, this is up to you, but we feel that she needs . . . compensation for her work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is her duty to work. That is why I accepted her offer.” But something in Sir Bedivere’s words stuck. Most workers did receive some sort of compensation, weather it be money or shelter or something else. She was not paying Irisiviel, and Camelot as it was could hardly be considered a shelter, it had gaping holes in its structure after all. It was a servant’s duty to serve their King. It was a King’s duty to guaranty the welfare of their citizens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a second, something spiked through her mind, pain of a sort, brief and fleeting before nestling underneath her skull.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Her compensation is her continued safety.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, my king.” And there was a trace of despair in his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The king could care less about that. “However, I do conclude that she has been doing more than is necessary.” She had not traded her life to train Cavall. She had not traded her life to tend to the King’s wounds. But she had done both. “Go ahead, begin the preparations for a formal gathering. I expect you to be done by tomorrow.” She swept into the room, past Sir Bedivere, past her desk, to sit in her chair. “Begone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, my king.” Sir Bedivere said, bowing before hopping out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door shut, leaving her in darkness, and the king raised one slim hand to touch her temple and the pain that pulsed there like a second heartbeat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel pushed her hair back from her face, dirt and mud catching on it and smearing against her skin. She was at the last of Merlin’s pesky flowers now, the ones that had managed to slip deep inside the rose bushes, blooming in the shadows of their leaves. The sleeves of her dress, a dark purple concoction today, were pushed past her elbows. Her arms were scattered with little scratches from the roses, none deep enough to draw blood, but still deep enough to sting. It was barely past breakfast, and already a pile of the pulled up flowers was building, while Cavall pranced around with Sir Mordred balanced precariously on his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She worried what would happen should the teacup fall, but Merlin’s flowers should provide cushion enough. And they both seemed to be enjoying themselves, and Irisviel didn’t have the heart to stop them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She bent down again, threading her arm through the gaps to grasp the base of a flower. It was velvety under her touch, the petals bobbing with the movement. Carefully, she pulled, little tugs because anything more would send her arm into the thorns around it. She really should invest a little bit more time to find some gloves, but between cooking, and gardening, and training, and reading, she didn’t seem to have the time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She took a deep breath and pulled again, feeling the plant give. She threaded it back out of the rose bush and set it on the pile, pushing her hair back from her face again. She sat back on her heels, dragging out the ribbon that Gareth had given her, and got to work pulling it back again. She could already see her reaction to all the dirt caught in her hair and plastered to her arms, but Irisviel didn’t overly care. Right now, she was just happy with the progress she’d made, and that the odd feeling from this morning had washed away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“FA- My King!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel turned, hands dropping to her sides, to see Artoria walking her way. Cavall was bounding up to her, tail wagging violently, while Sir Mordred teetered on his back. She glanced at Sir Mordred, then bent to rub Cavall’s ears. “Sir Mordred, you have your duties to attend to. Go do them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, my king!” The teacup jumped off Cavall’s back and began the long arduous task of hopping back to the castle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king,” Irisviel said, and Artoria’s eyes flicked to her, “what a surprise, I wasn’t expecting to see you until lunch time.” Not technically a lie, but somehow she had thought it would take Artoria longer to acknowledge the fact that her work was done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her lips twisted faintly, and her gaze turned back to Cavall, who had flipped over, legs splayed in the air, tail wagging. “It seems that I have come across some free time. I believe I will use it to train Cavall so you can focus your energies on the roses.” She stood, the silver embroidery of her dress winking with the movement. “Cavall,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding, “stand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cavall rolled to his feet and stood, tail wagging, head tipped to the side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled, then went back to extracting the flowers from the rose bushes. She listened to the rise and fall of Artoria’s words, the sharpness of the orders, the gentler tones of “good boy”. Above them, the moon shone in all its glory, as it always did. The light filtered through the leaves and the roses, splashing against her arms and the earth and the flowers growing through the cracks. In the silver light, her skin almost looked translucent, too pale, unhealthy, and she closed her eyes and sighed, before getting closer to the ground and pushing her arm further into the mess. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something snapped, a branch cracking as if something large had stepped on it. She yanked back sharply, a thorn catching on her skin, scoring a deep path down her arm. She cursed, held it close to her chest, jerking around to stare wide eyed at Artoria. She was already moving, a blaze of black and purple energy, the shape of her sword in her hands, a burning trail of dark light towards the woods. Cavall was left, forlorn in the flowers, watching her path with intent eyes. Irisviel stumbled up and ran to his side, looping her uninjured arm around him just in case the wolf pup got any ideas. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the longest time nothing, then Artoria walked back out from the woods, her dark sword with the red designs still clutched in her hands. “Intruders.” She said, her voice almost frosty. “They left with the sound. Two sets of footprints. They will not escape.” Then her eyes landed on the slice of red on Irisviel’s arm and her eyes widened a fraction. “You are injured.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel looked at the wound, “Only a bit. It’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Artoira was already stepping towards her, her sword disappearing, skirts pooling as she knelt by Irisviel’s side. She took Irisviel’s arm, placed it gently in her lap, her fingers skimming over Irisviel’s skin. She shivered, goosebumps trailing in their wake, and Artoria’s yellow eyed gaze flicked to her. “You’re shivering.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apologies,” she breathed, “my king, I wasn’t expecting your hands to be so cold.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria almost frowned, something she’d been doing more and more. Almost emotions, and how Irisviel wanted to see something real and solid on her face. What would Artoria look like smiling, honestly smiling instead of some halfway thing? “Come,” Artoria murmured, standing in one smooth movement. “We should bandage this.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Irisviel murmured, standing, and Artoria started back to the castle, her fingers still loose around Irisviel’s wrist. Irisviel felt disoriented, head swimming, as if the world had stopped moving and all that existed was that touch, that connection. Then Cavall yipped once and the feeling disappeared. Irisviel looked back, to where Cavall still watched the dark forest and the creatures beyond it’s trees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she couldn't help but feel like something was watching her. Watching them both.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. A Ball Was Held in Honor of Beast and the Daughter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all for your comments and kudos! They bring a smile to my face everyday. (today especially so thank you again.) I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Back in the kitchens, Irisviel watched as Artoria bandaged her wound. Artoria sat beside her, Irisviel’s arm pulled into her lap, fingers wrapping the white gauze over and over with practiced ease. Her head was bent, her too pale hair hiding her face. In the kitchen lights, it seemed more golden then normal, lacking the silver sheen the moon had given it. A trick of the light, but somehow that difference made her seem less The King and more Artoria, and Irisviel couldn’t look away. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“This is not the first time the roses have drawn blood,” Artoria said, and the coldness of her voice jolted Irisviel out of her thoughts. “Perhaps I shall dig them up and burn them for their impudence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or,” Irisviel said, keeping her voice light, “I could go find gloves so this will not happen again. I’ve been meaning too, but I can’t seem to find the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Artoria straightened, turning her head to stare at Irisviel with her yellow gaze. “That should have been your first priority.” She hesitated, then tilted her head slightly, another one of those almost expressions flitting across her face. “However, you have been focused on your duties. I will get the gloves for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel swallowed, “Thank you, my king.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No matter,” Artoria turned back to wrapping Irisviel’s arm, “It is the king's duty to tend to their citizens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Irisviel forced her eyes away, taking in a deep breath, holding it, then letting it out again. She watched the kitchen, the stillness of it, absent of the normal chaos the knights brought with them. They were all missing, even Mordred, and Cavall was still outside, probably watching the woods. She bit her lip. “My king, do you know who was out there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Artoria finished, laying her hands carefully on top of Irisviel’s arm. Through the bandages, she could barely feel the touch, but somehow, the action still managed to worm it’s way into her thoughts. “And it is likely we will not know until they come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel turned to stare at her. Artoria’s eyes were focused on nothing, another almost expression on her face. The faintest of frowns, the slightest wrinkle in her brow, it was the smallest change but still drastic compared to her normal blankness. Irisviel’s fingers itched to smooth that small wrinkle between her pale brows away. She balled her fists up instead, clutching the fabric of her skirt. “How can you be sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scouts and spies always do.” Artoria said, that emptiness in her voice once again. Gently, she moved Irisviel’s arm from her lap to Irisviel’s own. She stood, her dark skirts flashing, a smooth movement, hinting at the power within those frail limbs. She looked down at Irisviel, her face once again a mask. “Do not blame yourself for their escape. You are a denizen of this castle, therefore you come first. There will be other opportunities to find and capture them. Stay, I will go find your gloves.” She left before Irisviel could say a word, footsteps echoing off the walls before fading in the distance behind the slam of the kitchen door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel sighed, leaning back against the kitchen table. Two sets of footsteps, there then gone. Who? Who would have - Grandfather. Grandfather who she had traded her life for. Grandfather who would have made it to town by now. Grandfather who would have stopped at nothing to bring her back. Only she couldn’t go back, because if she did, then the world was as good as done for. Oh god, what was she going to do now?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Back outside, the King coaxed Cavall from his post in the garden. It was good that he was watching for intruders, but he was still too young to be an effective guard dog. Any enemy he fought would slay him with ease. She turned her gaze to the woods, staring at the darkness that clung beneath the twisted boughs. Who had dared step foot onto Camelot’s soil? She would hunt them down and hang them from the garden walls. Once they returned, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My king,” Irisviel said, “I don’t think they’ll come back today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King turned to stare at Irisviel. The gloves she had found were for a larger person’s hands, and the leather was dark against Irisviel’s pale skin. She had dirt smeared across her face and caught in her hair, but her purple dress was spotless, draping to the ground and catching the moon’s light. She looked . . . off. If the King didn’t know better, she might have said guilty or conflicted. Irisviel’s ruby eyes weren’t looking directly at her, staring at the woods like someone lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are right, they wouldn’t. For how much longer will you be pulling up Merlin’s flowers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged, her gaze drifting to the rose bushes. “An hour perhaps, maybe a bit more before I get started on lunch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, very well. I will accompany you until then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She curtsied. “Of course, my king.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Artoria stayed with Irisviel as she pulled Merlin’s flowers from the depths of the rose bushes. Her voice became background noise as she worked with Cavall, rising and falling with each command and subsequent complement. She stayed with Irisviel when she began cooking lunch, watching the process with slightly too wide eyes. Another almost expression. They were happening more and more now, but what would happen when whomever it was Grandfather had hired tried to find her? Irisviel didn’t know, and it scared her. She should tell Artoria, or Merlin tonight in the dream, but the thought of telling them that she would have to leave, that her grandfather needed her made her wince. And she couldn’t just tell whomever it was who’d come for her to leave because she was needed here, they would think she was crazy and take her anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who would voluntarily stay with the monster Grandfather believed Artoria to be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was torn, torn between Camelot and her Grandfather. Which should she choose, the world or her family? Logically, it had to be the world. But how could she convince those hired to find her to let her stay? And if Grandfather had spread the word all the way to the capital . . . no. That was ridiculous, who would believe his story of a castle in the woods and the doll that was its king? No one. And he didn’t have enough money to make them believe either. So whoever it was couldn’t be the army, and there would be no army coming for her. Whoever it was had to be local. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But who?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The questions plagued her through lunch, and she could feel the weight of Artoria’s gaze even as she ate. Irisviel glanced up from her meal, and sent a smile her way. Artoria’s face didn’t shift, she just watched her, her fork moving from mouth to plate and back again with a speed few could match. Finally, she set her fork down, it clatted against her empty plate, and Irisviel restrained a wince. “Irisviel,” she said, slowly, “Is something the matter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel sighed, “I am worried about those . . . scouts.” She glanced up at Artoria through her lashes. Artoria’s face was utterly blank, no almost expression to grace it. Her yellow eyes met Irisviel’s, cold, empty, and Irisviel almost wanted to weep. The rest of the words stuck in her throat, and she stared down at her plate, because somehow that was easier than looking at Artoria. “I don’t -” she bit her lip, “I’m not scared, just worried.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Worry is fine,” Artoria said, and her tone was almost . . . warm. “It is the nature of humanity to worry. But I will keep you safe, Irisviel.” Irisviel looked up. Artoria watched her with that yellow gaze, shoulders drawn back, every inch the king. “I swear that to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” She breathed, “I - thank you my king.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not thank me, it is simply the king's duty. Now, finish your meal, Irisviel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled slightly, forcing her worry down deep inside. “Of course, my king.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day passed slowly. After lunch, Irisviel tended to the vegetable plots while the King returned to training Cavall. The wolf was progressing swiftly with his training, but his attention had dropped steadily throughout the day. He was not the only one with a limited attention span. Irisviel kept drifting in and out of dream world, pausing in her work to stare out at the woods or at her hands. Still worried, and the sight made the King . . . she didn’t . . . it didn’t fit Irisviel. Where was this worry when she rushed out into the woods after the King? Where was this worry every time Irisviel pushed and defied the King’s commands? There hadn’t been any worry then, and if there had been, she’d hid it better. Which meant that she knew who had been out there or had hired the scouts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King knew too, it had to be Irisviel’s grandfather. He was the only one who had managed to leave Camelot in one piece sense limbo was placed. And average citizens would have made noise when they fled, obviously the scouts had been professionals. The King could almost  . . . acknowledge the man’s desire to have Irisviel back, but he was not brave. If he had been brave, he would have come here himself to barter for Irisviel’s life. Then the King might have almost respected him. Like she did Irisviel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thought over this during dinner, eating her burnt meat and soupy potatoes without focusing on the food. Irisviel had her full attention now. Irisviel who played with her meal, much more put together then the King’s own, staring into space. Irisviel who would take listless bites and would then do nothing for long moments. The sight bothered the King, how uncharacteristic it was of the normally smiling woman. Perhaps Bedivere had the right idea with the party, it would lift Irisviel’s spirits. A momentary lift, but a lift nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Irisviel,” she said, and Irisviel jerked out of her thoughts, her ruby eyes widening with shock. “You read after dinner, correct?” That had been the pattern for the past few days at least. But the King no longer had work to do while Irisviel read her books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she said slowly. She glanced at her meal, then looked up, “I was going to read in the library today. Would you like to join me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King considered for a moment. “Very well. I am certain I can find something in the library that will be worth my time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Irisviel beamed at her, not as bright as her normal smiles, but a smile nonetheless, and for the briefest of moments, the King felt warm. But no. She was the King. Heartless, emotionless, cold as ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain from earlier returned to pound at her temples, as if to prove her wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In Avalon, Irisviel broke. The words spilled from her lips, her Grandfather, the scouts, her worries, her confusion. And when she was done, she slumped back against the tower wall, sliding down until she could pull her knees against her chest. Merlin watched her, laying on his side with one eyebrow raised. “Well fuck.” He said, “That is a bit of a pickle, isn’t it?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“A bit of a pickle?” Irisviel asked incredulously, “This could ruin everything. I can’t just go back home and tell them everything is alright and then return.” She hesitated, looked up. “Could I? I could ease Grandfather’s fears, and come back right after.”</span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sure, you could.” Merlin said, looking at his fingernails. “If you want the world to end.” He glanced at Irisviel with his inhuman eyes. “Time passes differently here, it is limbo after all. A day in the real world could be a couple in this one, possibly more. And would your Grandfather let you return? Would Artoria let you go?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, she wouldn’t.” Irisviel let her head thunk back against the stone wall. “She swore to keep me safe, and she can’t keep me safe if I’m out there and she’s stuck in Camelot.” She groaned, “What am I going to do?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And you’re asking me?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you see anyone else I can ask?” She shot back, and he winced. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sheesh, someone’s annoyed today.” He tapped his chin, gaze fixing on the wall behind her, his eyes losing their sheen of color. For a moment or two, he almost looked dead, then he jerked his head, blinked rapidly. “You’ve got a couple days,” he said, “maybe three. I suggest you make the most of them.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Irisviel woke up with a pounding head, the time limit hanging over her throat like a guillotine’s blade. A couple days, maybe three . . . Artoria was just beginning to show emotions, how was she supposed to accomplish such a feat in such a short time period? She moaned, pressing her face against her pillow. Perhaps she could just lay in bed all day? Claim she was sick and allowed herself to take a breather. Then again, she’d told Sir Bedivere and Sir Mordred about her sickly childhood, they might get worried . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Irisviel,” Gareth’s voice, high and excited, “good morning!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel pushed herself up, crawling out of the blankets and letting her feet hit the ground. “Morning, Gareth.” She tried a smile, but it felt weak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gareth’s door flapped open. “I have a really good dress for you today! I think you’ll like it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure your taste is as impeccable as always,” she yawned and pushed herself up to her feet. She stumbled for a moment, caught herself on the bed. Dizzy, she was dizzy, the world swimming and swirling before her eyes. She blinked hard, and then the moment was gone. She straightened and pushed her hair out of her face. Odd, that was odd. Her tonic, she needed to take her tonic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Irisviel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned, slowly so her head wouldn’t swim again. “I’m fine,” she said, smiling, “I’m just tired, that’s all. And a bit stressed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you shouldn’t have to worry about that today!” Gareth said cheerfully, her cabinet doors flapping, “come on and see the dress I picked out!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel laughed, and the action felt more real than her smile. “Okay, okay.” She walked over, and Gareth held her doors open wide, one of the dresses held out slightly. Irisviel froze, then carefully took the dress of the hanger. She held it out in front of her, staring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you like it?” Gareth asked, shifting back and forth nervously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the same dress she wore in Avelon in her dreams. The same white fabric, glittering softly like snow, the golden accents, warm against the coldness of the dress. The one that looked like it was designed for a princess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a deep breath. “Gareth, it’s beautiful, but I can’t. I’m a country girl, I’m not this.” She shook the dress, the fabric shimmering in her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gareth laughed softly, “Irisviel, you deserve that dress. You have done so much in your short stay here, have given us so much hope, you are more than just a country girl, you’re one of us. Let yourself have this, even if it’s only for the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel looked at the dress, then smiled. “Okay. Thank you, Gareth.” She began to put on the dress, feeling the cool fabric slip over her skin. “Where is Cavall?” She’d noticed the lack of the wolf’s presence when she’d woken up, but only now did it register. The wolf normally slept with her, where could he be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He left in the middle of the night, but don’t worry, Mordred was with him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel felt like she should worry because of that, but still, as long as they didn’t get into too much trouble. She sighed and finished pulling the dress on, adjusting her skirts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Gareth. It looks lovely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome! Have fun cooking breakfast!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will do!” She walked over to her bag and reached in for a vial. Her hands snapped on empty air. She froze, then carefully ran her fingers along the bottom of the bag. Nothing but fabric, rough beneath her fingertips. She stared at the vials on the table, counting them. One, two, three . . . eleven. There were eleven. Elevon vials, glinting innocently on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. No. No no no no. That couldn’t be right, she’d kept track of the day’s, hadn’t she? But she hadn’t been, because there had been bigger things to focus on then her vials. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Irisviel, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irisviel pulled back, “I’m fine!” It sounded false to her ears, and she restrained a wince, forcing a calm expression onto her face. “I’m headed to the kitchens now, by!” She raced out of the room, heart pounding too loud in her ears. She had to calm down, she had to calm down. She had a day, maybe two. That was plenty of time to find out if Artoria had an alchemy room she could borrow. There had to be one, right? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Beast and the Daughter Danced</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We finally get somewhere gang</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey y'all! I would like to thank everyone whose been commenting and kudoing, you people are the absolute best! I hope you all enjoy this chapter and happy holidays!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel ran, her feet flying over stone, her skirts held tightly in her grasp, her vision swimming before her. She stumbled to a halt, leaning on the stone walls, gasping for breath. Her tonic, when was the last time she’d been without her tonic? She didn’t know. How much time did she have? She didn’t know. But running wasn’t making the weakness any better. Food might help. Deep breaths too. She pushed herself off the wall, running her hands over her hair then smoothing down her gown. Deep breaths, walk carefully, and don’t exert herself too much. It was all she could hope to do until she managed to brew another batch of tonics.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opened her eyes and began walking again, arms out slightly for balance. She felt silly walking like that. Like she was a child and this was a game. Something imagined or a dream she was having. But even then . . . she did not want to wake up. She did not want to go back to her cottage and live her life waiting for Grandfather to come back from his trips. She did not want to leave Artoria behind as the doll-like king she was now. She had the chance to change things for the better, and she refused to let it slip through her fingers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Irisviel von Einzbern walked down the hall with her head held high and her back straight, trying to hide the shake in her limbs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King waited in the kitchens, Cavall at her feet. The dog had crawled into her bedroom last night, and the King had seen no reason to kick him out. Now, her fingers worked through his fur, moving around the spars of bone at shoulders and elbow and the spikes that ran down his spine, as she waited for Irisviel. Last night had been interesting, to do nothing but sit and read in the library with Irisviel by her side. It had been . . . calm, peaceful, so different from her work filled days that it was hard to tell which was better. Of course, work was better. She was the King, it was her duty. But Irisviel had laughed, had talked, all throughout their reading time. She’d read passages out of her books, had smiled so bright that it was almost hard to look at. She’d laughed until she’d cried, her giggles filling the air. And the King had been unable to look away through it all. Every time Irisviel had read while the King worked, she had been holding back this laughter and this need to share what she had found, and the King was going to make sure she never held it in again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pain nestled in the back of her head, and she flinched away from it. Was it so wrong to wish Irisviel happiness? To want to protect that smile and that laugh? No, of course not. She was the king, it was her duty to do so. So why did it feel as if she was forgetting something impor -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors opened, Iriviel slipping through the gap. Her white hair hadn’t been put up yet, and hung down her back, framing her face and swaying with each step. Her dress clung to her form, revealing her collarbone and her long pale arms. The gold accents glittered bright against her skin and her ruby eyes shone in the kitchen light. She looked every inch the lady, with the bearings of royalty the King had seen in her sense that first day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King stood, her dress shifting. “Irisviel.” The word hung in the air between them, crystallized and pure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel froze, ruby eyes wide, before she reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She curtsied, head dipped, eyes veiled by her long lashes. “My King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pain knocked on the back of her head, louder than before. The King ignored it. “That dress suits you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel straightened, biting her lip, pink lighting up her cheeks. “Thank you, my king.” She hesitated, then stepped further into the kitchens. “My king, do you have an alchemy room somewhere? I,” she bit her lip again, her ruby eyes shifting away from the King, “I have something I need to make.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King stood, walking over to stand before Irisviel. She took her hand. Irisviel’s fingers shook slightly against hers, just enough to be noticeable. The King reached up to touch her cheek, turning Irisviel’s face to hers. There were shadows under her eyes, barely there but present all the same. The King nodded and stepped away. “Sit, Irisviel. I will make breakfast today. I can not promise it will be good, but it will be edible.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sat, her breath rushing out in one shaky gust. Her cheeks felt warm, but she didn’t dare raise her fingers to touch them and check. The ghost of Artoria’s hand still lingered on her skin. What had that been? For the briefest moment, Artoria’s yellow eyes had looked almost . . . gentle. Perhaps worried. And cooking breakfast, Irisviel had thought Artoria was unable to cook breakfast. What had Bedivere said?  No, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t allow herself to get distracted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel laced her fingers together in her lap, watching as Artoria brought in supplies from the pantry. She carried herself with confidence, but Irisviel was not fooled, she could see Artoria’s slight hesitations as she moved from step to step. Artoria was cooking breakfast for her sake, and it made a bubble of warmth rise in her chest. “My king,” she said softly, and Artoria froze for a moment, turning to stare at her with those bright yellow eyes. Irisviel swallowed, “about the alchemy room, do you have one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria turned back to her preparations, her pale hair catching the light, her dark dress swishing with the movement. Once again, her hair looked more golden than before, the faintest touch of color added to her skin, and although Irisviel wanted to hope, worry gnawed at her heart. “Merlin had one.” She said, her voice almost thoughtful, but that cold emptiness still ran through it. “I do not know how well stocked they are, or how damaged they are. Is there a reason you need them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel hesitated, “Did Sir Bedivere and Sir Mordred not tell you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria stiffened, then she spun around, walking over and standing in front of Irisviel. Her face was shadowed, her eyes almost glowing as she stared down at Irisviel. “Tell me what.” And her voice took Irisviel’s breath away, because this time she spoke like she had when Irisviel had first met her. Truly cold and indifferent. Empty. Uncaring. There had been emotion in her voice before, but it had been so subtle that Irisviel could barely understand it. Now though, the difference was jarring. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel looked away, staring at her hands. Little scratches marred her pale skin, but she could see her veins running blue at her wrists. She looked so . . . frail. Her eyesight blurred. Tears, hot against her skin. She felt frail, frail and weak. “My king, I -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel,” her name, incredibly soft. She looked up. Artoria had knelt in front of her, face no longer blank, eyes no longer cold. She reached out and wiped Irisviel’s cheeks with her fingers. “Tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a deep breath and leaned into the touch. “I was a sickly child.” She said softly. “It was bad. I sniffled at every draft, coughed with every puff of dust. Grandfather said I was still born, that it’s a miracle the midwife was able to bring me back. But . . . there were problems. I got sick easily and I was too weak to move most of the time. Every day was a dance with death.” She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see Artoria’s face, had never wanted to tell her this. “Grandfather created a tonic, and it helped. It made breathing easier, bolstered my body, gave me strength. With it, I’m healthy. I can move around, act normal, but he still didn’t want to take any chances. It’s why I stayed in our cottage for most of my life.” She took a deep breath. “I drank my last tonic yesterday. And . . . I don’t know how long it will be before I’m back to how I was before taking them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King froze, Irisviel’s tears splashing hot against her fingers. The King had known about Irisviel’s bravery before, it was a vital part of the woman in front of her . . . but now. It took her breath away. How could one person be so brave in the face of the unknown when her very life hinged on something so easily taken? “You, Irisviel von Einzbern, are the bravest person I have ever met. Rest for now, I will finish your breakfast and then I will take you to the alchemy room. Do not exert yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel opened her eyes, her lashes glistening wetly. “My king?” She closed her eyes, then opened them again, bright and shining and strong. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King stroked her cheek, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath her calluses. “Rest, Irisviel. Breakfast will be ready in a little bit.” Irisviel nodded, and the King drew back, watching as Irisviel leaned forwards and put her head in her hands. Her shoulders rose with each breath, her hair hiding her face. So fragile, so brave, and the King felt something swell in her. It brought pain along with it, tingling in her fingers and spiking through her head, but it did not matter. She would protect Irisviel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever it took. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was not the best porridge Irisviel had ever eaten, but somehow the knowledge that Artoria had made it for her seemed to wipe that fact away. It was warm, and filling, and returned some of her strength. She set the bowl aside on the table, the wooden spoon clicking against the surface. Artoria watched her, golden eyes never leaving Artoria’s face. “Did the food help?” Once again, there was that trace of emotion through her voice, and this time Irisviel was able to identify it. Definitely worry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it did.” Irisviel smiled at her, folding her hands in her lap. “Thank you, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria nodded slightly. “How long will your tonic take to create?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It will take a day for a batch to brew completely.” Irisviel pushed herself up, smoothing down her gown. “If you could please show me the way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a few moments, Artoria stared at her, then she stepped forwards. “I will not have you exert yourself until your tonic is on its way to completion. I will carry you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel froze, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. “My king?” But it was already too late, Artoria moved, faster than Irisviel’s eyes could track. One arm wrapped around her back, the other slipping behind her knees, then she was lifted off her feet, pressed against Artoria's chest. She could feel Artoria’s fingers through the fabric of her dress, gripping her leg gently, spread across her ribcage. Irisviel looked up into Artoria’s face, her heartbeat loud in her throat. Too close, they were too close. She could count the almost freckles that dotted her cheeks, the golden lashes that veiled her eyes, eyes that no longer looked solid yellow at this distance but instead seemed to carry specks of blue and green. Irisviel swallowed hard, her protests lost and never to be recovered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rest your head against my shoulder,” Artoria said softly, “and once we are there, lead me through the steps. I will make your tonic for you, so you may save your strength for later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel had to look away, biting her lip carefully. “As you wish, my king.” She laid her head against Artoria’s bare shoulder, her skin cool against Irisviel’s flushed cheeks. Irisviel closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths, the scent of lilies filling her lungs. She felt lightheaded, her heartbeat too fast, her breaths too shallow. But Artoria’s arms were strong around her, and Irisviel felt warm and safe secured in her grip</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King had never been in Merlin’s alchemy rooms before, it was not her domain. Now, though, Merlin was nowhere near and Irisviel needed this potion. The King pulled Irisviel closer to her chest, and she squeaked slightly, then fell silent once again. She was so light in her arms, breath gusting over her skin. It was astonishing how brave someone so frail could be, if the King dropped her she would break like shattered glass. So she would not drop her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pain flickered in her mind, pounding with each step she took. How annoying it was, she hoped it would not be a distraction. She refused to make a mistake when creating the tonic Irisviel needed. She wanted Irisviel safe and strong, healthy enough for the ball her knights were throwing tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanted?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King shook her head, the pain spiking harder before falling away again. She walked faster, her skirts plastering against her legs, and Irisviel yelped and clung to her shoulders, fingers digging into her skin. The King slowed down. “My apologies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My apologies?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no,” Irisiviel said, her voice breathless, “You’re fine. Actually,” she chuckled, and the King hated how weak she sounded there. “If you could speed up a bit? I’ll be fine, I’m not breakable.” She smiled, a pale imitation of her normally beaming thing. She reminded the King of ice at this moment, cold and translucent, easily snapped or cracked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well, Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King sped up, and Irisviel clung tighter to her, face plastered against her shoulder. She made sure her arms were tight around her, then let loose some of her mana. It exploded from her in a burst of purple and black, and the King rocketed down the hall, her feet barely brushing the stone before pushing her forwards again. Irisviel began to laugh, a bubbling, amused sound, and the King felt something tug at the corner of her lips.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Merlin’s alchemy room was a mess. Cobwebs hung from each corner, and part of the room had collapsed to reveal the night sky and the woods outside. Artoria set Irisviel down gently, her hands falling onto Irisviel’s shoulders as she fought to steady herself. Irisviel took a deep breath at the feeling of Artoria’s hands pressed against her skin, the scrap of her calluses against the smoothness of her own shoulders, then Artoria was stepping away and to the side, tucking Irisviel’s hand into the crook of her arm. “What do you need?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel swallowed hard, tearing her eyes away from the sight of her fingers against the dark cloth of Artoria’s dress, and cast her gaze around what remained of the room. It looked like they were somewhat lucky, most of the dusty and cobwebbed equipment hadn’t been touched by the collapse, and there were two cabinets also untouched by time. “I . . . we’ll need to look there. I’ll know what I need when I see it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria nodded and led her carefully over to the cabinets. Irisviel watched as she reached over with her free hand and ripped the door open of the first one. Irisviel turned her head at the plume of dust, coughing slightly into her fist. “Irisviel, are you -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” She smiled, “I’m fine.” She gazed at the shelves. There was the welcoming sight of vial upon vial upon vial, glinting dimly in the moonlight. She released Artoria’s sleeve and began to search through them. “The ingredients should be here!” She said, her weakness momentarily forgotten. “The process is relatively simple to follow, so we should be fine after that.” She pulled back, a couple of vials held carefully in her hands. “Now for the next cabinet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria was watching her, blinking slightly. The moonlight that spilled from the opening turned her hair silver, struck her shoulders and cheek and neck, played across her yellow eyes. Irisviel sucked in a deep breath. “Very well,” Artoria murmured before opening the next cabinet. Irisviel smiled at her, then dove into the contents, rifling through the vials until she found what she was looking for. She stepped away from the cabinets and pressed them into Artoria’s hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here we go! Now, the first thing you do is . . .”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King turned back to where Irisviel sat, balanced in a chair that had walked it’s own way into the room. The King didn’t know which one of her knights had spotted them and sent the chair, but she could not be angry. Not that she would have been anyway. She’d been too busy focusing on the steps of the tonic, past the pain that pounded against her temples. But now she could step back, and take in the sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Under Irisviel’s guidance, the tonic had been created. Currently, it steeped, where it would sit for at least four more hours. It was past time for lunch, but she hadn’t had a chance to stop. She couldn’t feel the hunger, but Irisviel had to be feeling it. The King moved over to her side, placed her hand against her shoulder. Irisviel blinked out of dreamland, tilting her head up and smiling slightly. “You did it.” She murmured, her voice soft and gentle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King moved to pick her up, and this time she didn’t resist. Irisviel placed her head against the King’s shoulder, her hair smooth and silky against her skin. “You are good at this,” the King said softly, “Better than Merlin could ever hope to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel laughed, “He’s your court mage, you should be taking his side.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King almost flinched at the pain that shot through her mind, and for a moment her vision went white. She blinked the dots away, then began to walk out of the room. She was the King, and Kings did not bow to pain. “Merlin does not deserve my support. But you, Irisviel, do.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She heard Irisviel’s deep breath and she looked down. Irisviel was staring at her with wide ruby eyes, her lips slightly parted, pink dusting her cheeks. “Ar - My king . . .” The words hung in the air, barely heard. For a moment, time froze, then the pain returned with a vengeance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King took a deep breath, then began moving again. She had stopped, when had she stopped? Her thoughts were scattered, the pain sending cracks through her mask. What had she be - food. Food, lunch. Irisviel needed it. The King took another breath, then looked down at the women in her arms. Irisviel was watching her carefully, worry shining bright in her ruby eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but the King had something to say. “Let’s get you some food, Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment, Irisviel nodded. “Thank you, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel ate the porridge Artoria gave her slowly. Like a breakfast, it wasn’t the best, but the simple knowledge that Artoria had made it for her made it taste much better than most porridges she had tasted in her life. Irisviel smiled down at her porridge, that warmth blooming in her chest once again. She glanced up to stare at Artoria, who watched her from across the table with her shining yellow eyes. “Thank you, my king.” She breathed once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop thanking me, Irisviel.” Artoria said, her voice commanding. “You have done much with your time here, you are allowed to rest for a day or so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel giggled slightly, and turned back to her porridge. They sat in silence for a time, a comfortable silence, with no need for words. The door cracked open, and Bedivere hopped inside the kitchen, jumping onto the table. “My King,” the teapot said, “Lady Irisviel, the preparations are in place.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel dropped her spoon into what remained of her porridge. “Preparations, what preparations?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria pushed herself up, running her hands over her skirts. “Irisviel, the knights have been planning something in your honor. I know that you are weak right now, but your tonic must still brew for a while longer. Do you think you are strong enough for a dance?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel’s heart jolted painfully in her chest. “A dance.” Artoria nodded, and Irisviel fingered a lock of her hair. “I don’t know how to dance.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria ducked her head slightly, “that is alright, all you need to do is follow my lead.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria pushed open two large doors, the firelight from the torches lining the walls and playing on the shining wood. They swung open to reveal a room filled with warm light, fires in niches on the walls, spilling out across the room. An ornate candelabra hung from the ceiling, crystals reflecting the small flames that had been lit across each candle. The room had been cleared of dust, the smooth stone floors gleamed as if polished. In one corner of the room sat an array of instruments, led by what looked to be a harp and a stool. Around them were figures she recognized. Sir Mordred arguing with Sir Gawain. Lancelot, who was currently hopping in their direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The candlestick bowed deeply. “My King, lady Irisviel. We thank you for appearing before us today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled, “You all, this is unnecessary.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Artoria said softly, “It is not.” She held out her arm, her eyes fixed on Irisviel. “Come, you promised me a dance.” Irisviel took a deep breath, and reached out slipping her fingers into the crook of Artoria’s arm. Slowly, they walked into the room, out onto the floor. Artoria spun to face her, taking Irisviel’s other hand in hers. “Deep breaths,” she said softly, “and if you start to feel weak, tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt weak now, her hand tingling where Artoria held it. She had goosebumps trailing up her arms, a crackle running down her spine, butterflies trapped in her stomach. “Of course, my King,” she murmured softly, shifting her gaze away from their interconnected hands to Artoria’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Music began to swell, slow and beautiful and haunting. A voice joined it, lyrics lilting, musical and melancholic all the same. She felt like she was caught in a dream, this was too good to be real. To impossible, even for Camelot and magic and limbo. She was not about to dance with Artoria, she couldn’t be about to dance with Artoria!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria stepped close, too close, her fingers intertwining with Irisviel’s. She moved her other hand to Irisviel’s waist, and she could feel the contact even through the fabric of her dress. “Your other hand goes on my shoulder.” Artoria said softly. Numbly, Irisviel followed the order, placing her hand lightly on Artoria’s shoulder. “Very good. Now follow my steps, and do not look down. Focus on me and nothing else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel bit her lip and nodded. She wouldn’t have been able to focus on something else even if she tried. The music and the murmuring of the knights had fallen to background noise. All that matter was the hand touching hers, the hand on her waist, her own on Artoria’s shoulder, the scent of lilies filling the air, and the mesmerizing flecks of blue and green in Artoria’s eyes. Then Artoria began to move, and Irisviel stumbled to follow her. She winced as she stepped down on Artoria’s foot. “My -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Artoria murmured, “I do not expect you to be perfect at this, Irisviel. Just relax. Just breathe.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel nodded and took another deep breath. The music swelled, and she could feel it in her bones, thrumming through her blood. Artoria began moving again, and this time Irisviel did not falter. She followed Artoria’s lead, steps going from uncertain to certain as they moved. Their skirts swirled together, black and white, silver and gold, light and dark as they danced. Irisviel felt a giddy laugh push from her lips as Artoria spun her around, before they were chest to chest again. Artoria had another almost expression on her face, an almost smile, and almost gentle look in her eyes. It made Irisviel’s heart flutter, heat rush to her cheeks. With the music and the light and the almost fond look on Artoria’s face, the moment felt more magical, more real than any of the dreams Merlin could send her. The weakness from earlier seemed to drain away, filling her with a lightness she couldn’t name. She felt alive, here on this dance floor, in Artoria’s arms, bold in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time. She leaned forwards slightly, closer so their breaths were mingling. She could count every almost freckle, every fleck of color in those yellow eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king,” she breathed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria tilted her head the slightest bit up. “Yes, Irisviel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, thank you so much.” She smiled gently, “I never thought I would experience something like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria twirled them around, the world spinning in a blur of color, so the only thing Irisviel could see clearly was the woman in front of her. “You,” she said softly, “are the bravest person I have ever known, Irisviel. I have fought battles, have seen war and death aplenty. I have seen men see their companions ripped apart and still move forwards. But none of them have ever dared to stand up to me. You should always hold your head high, Irisviel, and let no one control you. You are not meant for such things. You are no servant, no gardener, no cook, but my equal.” She stopped them, and Irisviel stumbled forwards, dizzy. “My lady Irisviel,” Artoria murmured, “only a foolish person would not acknowledge this truth.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared at her, her breath stuck in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn’t know what to say, her thoughts had stopped running, stalled into confusion. So she didn’t say anything, just leaned forwards to tuck her head against Artoria’s neck. She let go of Artoria’s shoulder and hand, linked her fingers behind the other woman's back, and smiled. She felt Artoria copy the motion, her arms wrapping around Irisviel’s waist, pressing her face against Irisviel’s hair. And for the longest time, they stayed like that, swaying side to side as the music rebounded off the walls around them.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. The Beast Let the Daughter Return Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey everyone! Thank you all for your comments and kudos! I would like to say that I think we've hit the halfway point! Though, tbh, we probably hit it a while back. Oh well. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel did not know how long they stayed like that, swaying together, her head on Artoria’s shoulder and Artoria’s arms wrapped around her waist. It felt nice, to just stay like this, without the world weighing heavy on her shoulders. She could pretend that this would last forever, with the music swelling around them and danger just a distant memory. She didn’t even feel weak at the moment, not while she was in Artoria’s arms. But that was just a fantasy and it couldn’t last forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think your tonic must be ready by now.” Artoria murmured, her cheek pressed against Irisviel’s forehead. “Shall we go check?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has it been that long already?” Irisviel murmured back, not moving away. She didn’t want this to stop, didn’t want to move away. Artoria’s grip was comforting and Irisviel felt safe in her arms, and if she could just hold her here then perhaps -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe so,” Artoria murmured, stopping her swaying. “Come, we shall check.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sighed, pulling away. Artoria’s eyes were fixed on her, the speck of green and blue shining in their yellow depths. Irisviel could see her reflection in them. Close, they were too close, breaths mingling together, and it would be so simple to lean down and - then Artoria was stepping away, her hands leaving Irisviel’s waist, breaking Irisviel’s own grip. Irisviel almost swayed at the sudden lack of Artoria’s presence, feeling lost without her touch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like me to carry you there?” Artoria asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes please.” Irisviel answered, her breath shaky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria nodded. “Very well.” Then she was there again, sweeping Irisviel into her arms and carrying her out of the ballroom. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you see that?” Sir Bedivere whispered almost as soon as the doors shut. He jumped slightly, his normal calm broken. His king had been smiling, he was sure of it. A very, very tiny smile as she and Irisviel swayed to the music. “It can’t have just been me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside him, Sir Mordred sat stock still. “Fa - I -” He stopped, rocking on his base.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The music faded away, and the harp spoke, his tones not as morose as they had been before Sir Bedivere convinced him to come. “I hope this helped.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think it did, Sir Tristan.” Sir Gawain surveyed the ballroom and the many other objects that were slowly trickling out of the room. “You’ve certainly helped repair things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you notice?” Lancelot interrupted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Notice what.” Sir Gawain snapped back at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The candlestick waffled slightly. “The King’s eyes, they are no longer just yellow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a long time silence followed, then Sir Mordred broke it. “THEY AREN’T?!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot shook his head, and Sir Kay began to chuckle, the low, rich sound, rumbling through the room. “That bastard court mage . . . maybe he was on to something after all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared at the tonic, biting her lip nervously. She wasn’t sure how she could say this without affronting Artoria, but she had to say something. “My King,” she said softly, leaning against the table, “I . . .” She sighed, dropping her head slightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it, Irisviel?” Artoria asked softly, her fingers landing on Irisviel’s shoulder. The touch was reassuring, even if it sent goosebumps skittering across Irisviel’s skin. The feel of Artoria’s calluses against her shoulder was . . . distracting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The tonic’s the wrong color.” She blurted out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The tonic’s the wrong color.” She pushed herself away from the table and the tonic sitting on it. The liquid should have been clear, but it was green instead, a translucent, misty green. Irisviel stared at Artoria, wild eyed. She didn’t know what had happened. Artoria had followed her steps to the letter; how could it have led to this?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s eyes darkened, her brow furrowing slightly. “Stale.” She said, her voice a soft growl. “The ingredients were stale.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But how? This was limbo the ingredients shouldn’t have been - the meat and vegetable had had mold on them. The plants grew as if with the passage of time. Of course the ingredients could have become stale. She should have thought of that sooner. She swallowed hard. “The good news is if the ingredients were stale, then the tonic should work, it’s just not going to be as strong as it should have been.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment Artoria stared at her, nostrils flaring, then she spun around, her dress fanning out as she strode towards the cabinets and ripped the doors off their hinges. They crashed against the ground, splintering as they struck stone. Irisviel winced as Artoria clawed through the supplies remaining. Vial’s hit the ground and shattered. Glass crunched under her heels as she rummaged through the cabinets. Finally she stepped back, her voice shaking slightly. “We used the last of those ingredients.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel twisted to stare at the vial, what was it, four days doses maybe? Less if they weren’t as strong as they should have been. She reached out and grabbed the tonic. Her fingers trembled, the glass cool beneath her fingers, and then Artoria was there, hands wrapping around Irisviel’s own. Gently, she pried the tonic out of Irisviel’s hands before she dropped it, and set it back down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel.” Artoria said her name softly, thumbs rubbing the back of Irisviel’s hands. “It will be okay. I promise you that. My word as King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel tore her gaze from the tonic and focused on Artoria. It was safer, because she didn’t feel like her whole world was tilting when she stared into Artoria’s eyes. It gave her the strength to say what she needed to say. “I need to go back.” Arturia opened her mouth to argue and Irisviel rushed over her. “I need to go back and brew a proper potion. This might be enough to get me through the process. I’ll be back I promise I - I promise.” Her voice broke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s eyes darkened faintly. “Wait here.” Then she was gone, sweeping out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel collapsed, her knees striking the floor. She wasn’t sure if it was the news or the realization or the fact that she’d been without the tonic, but the room was spinning and her limbs were shaking and her breath kept on sticking to her throat. She reached up and felt for the bottle, then took a gulp, feeling the liquid roll down her throat. She resisted the urge to cough. What would she say? To the knights and Merlin and Grandfather? That she couldn’t stay in Camelot with Artoria? She couldn’t just stay while sick, she could die and then what? But she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria opened the door and it slammed against the wall. Irisviel almost jumped, but she didn’t have the strength to do that. At least not yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria knelt beside her, cold fingers pushing Irisviel’s hair from her face. “Irisviel,” she said softly, although her voice was strained. “You may leave, but you will come back to me.” She ran her fingers over Irisviel’s cheek and tilted her head up, thumb tracing circles on her skin. “Promise that you will come back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel licked her lips, staring into Artoria’s eyes. There was something swimming in them, so foriegn from her normal blankness that it was hard to understand. Worry, possibly. Was it her imagination or were the flecks of green and blue larger than they had been? “I promise, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Artoria drew back, then pushed something into Irisviel’s hands. A hand mirror, the sides worked with some kind of metal that almost glowed. “Take this with you, and say my name if you need me. We can keep in contact through this.” She stood, pulling Irisviel up with her. “Go,” she said, her voice a touch colder. “Go, and hurry back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared at her, then nodded, words sticking in her throat. She wanted to say something, anything, because Artoria was looking at her with something that seemed impossible, like she cared. Irisviel closed her burning eyes and turned away, running out of the room on shaking limbs. She had to pack, no there wasn’t time, if she stayed to pack she was afraid she wouldn’t leave. But she had to say goodbye, had to explain at least something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She clutched the mirror and the tonic to her chest and sucked in a harsh breath, tears cold against her cheeks. They didn’t matter, she had to go, and she wouldn’t be gone forever, just for a day. Maybe two. She could convince Grandfather to let her leave, get the mercenaries away from Camelot. This - this could be a good thing, this would have to be a good thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So why did she feel like her heart was breaking?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King waited until Irisviel’s footsteps faded, then she pushed herself to her feet, staring at the room in front of her. Merlin’s room. Merlin’s room whose ineffectual limbo hadn’t prevented the ingredients Irisviel needed from going stale. Merlin who was nowhere, his magic useless. She bared her teeth at the room, Excalibur falling into her grip. If the wizard was here she would have beheaded him for such inadequacy, but he wasn’t, so she couldn’t. She brought Excalibur down upon the table instead, the blackened blade slicing through the wood like a hot knife through butter. The table crashed against the ground, the contraptions the King had no name for but Irisviel did clattering against the ground. Glass broke, metal bent out of shape, liquid splattered across stone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foolish. She was being foolish. (Kings were not foolish.) Irisviel would need them when she came back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If she came back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King dropped Excalibur, a low growl fighting it’s way past her lips. (Kings did not growl.) Distantly, she heard the blade clink against the ground, but the sound was lost underneath the rush of blood in her ears, the pounding in her head, the pain that lit up her skin like she had been pricked with a thousand needles. It did not matter. Kings did not bow to pain. She would not bow to pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked at Excalibur, the black blade laying across the stone, red runes shining against the darkness. Avalon. Avalon could help. Irisviel would not have to leave as long as she had Avalon she would be -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Avalon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Avalon, partnered with Excalibur, whose twisted form still lied at her feet. The King held her hand out, watching the sheath take from in the air, blue turned to black, gold turned to red. Could it even heal anymore? Somehow she doubted it. Useless.She grabbed it and threw it, watched it clatter against the wall. (Kings did not throw things.) Useless. It was useless. Absolutely useless. How could it help Irisviel when it was like that? It couldn’t. She was - she wa - she - she -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She spun around, her heel hitting Excalibur, sending the blade scraping against stone. She stared down at Lancelot, trying to regain control of her breathing. (Kings did not hyperventilate.) “Get out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The candlestick hesitated, “My king, are you -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“GET OUT!” The sounds were ripped from her throat, painful as they scraped against her mouth. (Kings did not yell.) How long had it been since she yelled like that? She didn’t know. Lancelot tripped over his base and scrambled away, unable to face her. Because he was not brave like Irisviel was, none of them were. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She collapsed to the ground, staring at the empty doorway, fingers reaching out to grasp Excalibur’s hilt.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel burst into her room. The strength was returning to her limbs, a week kind of strength, but strength nonetheless. It would be enough to get her home at least. “Gareth,” She gasped out, panting, fingers clutching the mirror and tonic tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel! Did you enjoy your surprise? Mordred told me you got to dance with the King! Was it fun? Was she a good dancer? I wish I had come but . . . Irisviel, are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, Irisviel wondered what she looked like, hair disarray, chest heaving with each breath. She grabbed her bag, tossing the mirror inside, and threw the strap onto her shoulder. She ran forwards, grabbed Gareth’s sides. “I have to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to go. I promise I’ll be back, I’ll only be gone for a day or two, three at the max.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, Gareth, there is no time to explain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” the cabinet shifted slightly, sadness slipping into her voice. “Okay. Be safe, Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel nodded, letting her head thump against the cabin doors. “Thank you, thank you so much for being my friend. I’ll be back soon.” Then she pushed herself away and raced off again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No one was in the library, or the kitchens, and she didn’t check Artoria’s office, the only person there she could speak to was Sir Agravain but she had nothing to say to him. She was running out of time, the longer she stayed the less she wished she had to go. As a last ditch effort she checked the ballroom. There they were, all but Lancelot huddled up, speaking in hushed whispers. She pushed past the doors and as one the knights jumped away from each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My lady,” Sir Bedivere blurted, “Is something the matter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred was a bit more blunt. “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO FA - THE KING?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“SIR MORDRED!” Sir Gawain roared, “You do not swear in front of a lady!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do what I want!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m leaving.” Irisviel blurted out. Silence was immediate, the air hung thick and heavy with it. She took a deep breath and spoke before they could say anything else. “Not for long, one or two days, three at the most. I’ll be back, I promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” the harp murmured, “How sad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But the gardens.” Sir Bedivere said, his voice shaking, “and, and the King’s meals.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “The garden will be fine for a few days, and you’ve said it yourself, the King does not need to eat.” She smiled hesitantly. “I’m sure that the castle will not fall apart with my disappearance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I assume,” Sir Kay broke in, “that there is a good reason for this.” She nodded, and he growled. “Very well, go and return swiftly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She curtsied. “Thank you. Goodbye.” She turned and ran out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The air outside Camelot was crisp and cool, and Irisviel sucked in a deep breath to soothe her aching lungs. She began to walk, her skirts swishing around her legs. Merlin’s flowers had been a carpet when she’d first arrived, but now the walkways were clear, the rose bushes almost empty of the dancing flowers. Cavall bounced up to her side, barking and wagging his tail, his white fur shining in the moonlight. Irisviel knelt and hugged him, burying his face into her fur. He was the proof, the first bit of evidence, that Artoria was changing. Would leaving undo it all? She didn’t know, but dread was making the back of her throat sour. What if it did, what if she was making a horrible decision?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel looked up, staring into Artoria’s face. She stood there in her dark dress, moonlight weaving silver into her hair, reigns in her hand leading to a tall white horse. Irisviel swallowed and stood, clumsily curtsying. “My king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria stepped forwards, pushing a lock of hair behind Irisviel’s ear. The touch lingered long after she pulled her hand away. “Rise, Irisviel.” Once again her voice was cold, but there was something in the way she held herself that was uncharacteristic of her. She pulled the horse forwards, and it snorted slightly. “For you, for your ride home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared at the horse, then at Artoria. “My king, I can’t ride.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s lips twitched, “Cavall, heel.” The wolf yipped slightly and ran to her side, wagging his tail as he pranced by her skirt. Artorai reached out with one hand, letting go of the reins. “Do you trust me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel licked her lips and nodded. “Yes, I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria lifted her chin slightly. “Good.” Then she stepped forwards, hands around Irisviel’s waist as she swung her onto the horses’ back. Irisviel squeaked, reaching forwards to grab the horse's neck. Artoria drew back, one hand on the horse's flank. “Go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t get the chance. The horse exploded into movement and all she could do was hold on and prey she’d make it without falling. She looked back, her hair obscuring her vision, to catch the sight of Artoria standing there, a shaft of darkness in a field of flowers, before the trees blocked her view.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How do you know when a curse breaks? Do you know when the actions a person takes does not line up with who they are supposed to be? Is it told in small smiles on an unfeeling face? Is it heard in an emotionless voice once again carrying emotion? Is it seen in eyes once pure yellow regaining their original color? That knowledge is carried in all those things. Actions, smiles, voice, eyes, it all clues that lead to the truth. But the biggest hint of all is the most drastic. When the King without a heart collapses in a field of flowers as someone important rides away, pain pricking at her skin and pounding between her eyes, and realizes that she just might have a heart after all.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. The Daughter Made Her Way Home to Find Her Father Cast in Chains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First off, thank you for all your comments and kudos! Second off, Happy B-Day Irisviel! Third off, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel didn’t remember much of her flight back home. She buried her face into the horse’s mane as time flew by, measured by the thump of it’s feat against the earth. She didn’t know how the horse managed to find its way through the trees, and she didn’t care either. She could still see that last glimpse of Artoria in her mind’s eye. Her dark dress, her hair painted silver, her eyes both yellow and blue and green, standing with Cavall by her side in Merlin’s flowers. The image made something well up in Irisviel, dark and bitter, the want to turn back was so painful she could almost taste it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t though, just clung to her horse and ignored the tears that soaked it’s mane.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They burst out of the tree line, and Irisviel slid off, stumbling up to her feet. With a toss of it’s head, the horse raced back into the woods, leaving Irisviel alone, on the border between her old life and new. In front of her, her house. Its little garden, the fence, the porch. The wood was painted with the sun’s rays, all cheery and quaint and homely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And painful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been awhile since she’d been out in the sun. The light was painfully harsh, each detail picked out with a violence the moon’s light hadn’t had. Each color shone too bright, blazing with a fury that was hard to look at. The sunlight was warm against her skin, and Irisviel winced, shading her eyes. She was tempted to step back into the shadowy embrace of the woods, to where Artoria waited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, she couldn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had to go forwards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Very well then, one step at a time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The gate sagged open when she touched it, and she swallowed hard. In the days she had been gone, chaos had come to her little home. The garden was choked with weeds. The painted walls of the house looked like they had been bleached by the sun. The door hung slightly a jar, showing a slit of blackness beyond. Suddenly, it didn’t look as friendly as it had been from afar. It looked abandoned. As horror filled as Camelot was supposed to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, she stepped forwards, through the gate, up the porch steps, and through the door. Inside it was dim. Sunlight slipped past the shudders, cast its long fingers across the floor. Chairs had been tossed over, cutlery stacked the washbasin. Grandfather had been in, but he was not here anymore. She made her way around, threw open the shutters. Golden light lanced through the room, sending beams of dust dancing through the air. For a moment she stopped and stared, then shook herself away from the sight. She needed to start the potion, and then she needed to find Grandfather. And after that . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After that she could only hope that things went right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She picked up a book while she waited for the position to finish. The book she chose was worn and frayed, the chair she sat in was threadbare. The walls of the house seemed to close in on her. She got up, peeked outside. The gate still hung open. Somehow, the sight eased some of the tightness in her chest. The path to freedom was still there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She couldn’t read. There was a restlessness in her limbs, a fizziness in her blood she couldn’t understand. Every time she closed her eyes Artoria rose in her mind. Their dance, the feeling of Artoria’s hands, the way the light had caught in her hair, her eyes touched with blue and green, the almost there freckles. How she had looked while Irisviel rode away, small and alone. Irisviel swallowed hard and turned to housework, cleaning and dusting, driving the thoughts of Artoria from her mind. With each sweep of the brush, the mirror thumped against her. She was tempted to take it out, to see how it worked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shook her head. A few hours away from the castle and already she wanted to see Artoria’s face again. What was wrong with her? She needed to focus. Grandfather wasn’t home, but he’d sent the mercenaries out . . . so perhaps she could go into town and explain the situation to them?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That made her freeze, all thoughts of Artoria fleeing her brain. She’d have to go into town, she’d have to go into town to find the mercenaries. She’d been fine in Camelot, but town, town with all its people, crowded and loud and - no, she couldn’t think about it. She simply had to do it. She would not allow herself to waver. She returned to cleaning, forcing her mind empty of all the thoughts that circled around and around and around.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Time passed, and Irisviel moved on to pouring the tonic out into individual vials. She downed one and shoved the others in her bag. Her hand bumped the mirror, and after a second, she brought it out. She hadn’t gotten a good look at it earlier, and now she was able to gaze in its depths, fighting the urge to shout Artoria’s name and see her face. The sides of the hand mirror were wrought in some pale metal, so pale it cast it’s own soft light. There were flowers pressed against the sides and back, each tinted a pinkish shade, identical in shape to Merlin’s flowers. In the glass she could see her own face. Her skin paler than normal, her eyes puffy, her hair tangled and still decorated with twigs. And behind her -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Movement, so quick she almost missed it. A dark shape, a glinting weapon. She spun around, mirror held tight to her chest, a scream rising up in her throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman, familiar, Irisviel had seen her before, moved her sword down. Her face twisted momentarily before smoothing out, but Irisviel had learned to read expressions past the masks, she could see the surprise bright in the woman’s eyes. Her voice was cold and clipped, but compared to Artoria’s empty monotone it was almost warm.“Irisviel Von Einzbern, what are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman. The woman who brought Justeaze back from the woods. One of the bounty hunters. Irisviel swallowed hard and shoved the mirror back into her bag. “I’m looking for Grandfather, have you seen him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment the woman stared at her, and Irisviel realized she didn’t know her name. “He’s convicted.” She said simply, sheathing her sword.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt the floor drop out from under her. She reached out, snagged the table. “He’s what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman’s face flexed as if she didn’t like explaining but would anyway. “Three weeks ago, your Grandfather burst out of the woods screaming something about a monster. He was incoherent, and we had to lock him up for a bit until he calmed down. Gave us some wild tale about an ancient castle, a monster, and you trading your life for his. The Mayor sent us to check it out, afraid that the bandits had caught him, you, and tortured you both. Or that he was stark raving mad. That was when the milk boy came back and claimed that you weren't here. Kiritsigu and I came to check this place out, and then headed into the woods.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel fell back, mind swirling. Three weeks? It hadn’t been three weeks, it had been twelve days. “But, but you two saw me! And Artoria! Why is he . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence, the whole world seemed to be spinning around her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite frankly, I don’t know what we saw.” She turned slightly. “But perhaps you can explain yourself before we cart your grandfather away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Numbly, Irisviel nodded. The woman started walking, and she followed, unsure of where this path would lead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even with panic biting at her throat, Irisviel couldn’t help but be in awe of the town. The buildings, the amount of people, some cheerful faced, some with grave looks, all staring at her and the woman as they walked towards the center of town. The mercenary, Irisviel really needed to get her name, had been in town for three weeks now apparently, but her armor and weapons still drew looks. Irisviel though, with her hair still decorated with brambles, and wearing the white and gold dress from Camelot, was different. Strange.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin slightly, folded her hands in front of her instead of grasping her bag like she wanted too. She had faced down Artoria, more than once, this was nothing. But still her heart fluttered in her chest, still she wanted to shy away from the stares. But she wouldn’t. She refused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grandfather needed her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The town was becoming more crowded now. Hard faced people turned to stare at her with surprised eyes. Whispers broke out. “ - It’s her - ” “ - The old cod’s granddaughter - ” “ - look at her - ” “ - where -” “ - no surprise - ” “ - mad - ” She swallowed hard and stepped closer to the woman. The crowd parted in front of the bounty hunter, closed behind Irisviel. She felt like she was in the woods again, with those wolf-like creatures. Hunted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kitritisgu!” The woman called, her voice sharp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pushed into a clearing, a rough circle outlined by the townsfolk. And in that circle, a cart, pulled by two horses. A horrid, wooden cart, a box with bars covering the windows and a locked door. There was a man beside it, greasy and unkept with torn and dusty clothing. And another man beside him, black haired, dark eyed, in dark armor and covered with weapons. He turned to the woman, his face almost brightening. “Maiya! And -” He stopped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stepped past him, and drew her skirts out into a curtsy. She’d gotten better then those, she barely even wobbled. “I am Irisviel von Einzbern.” She said coldly, summoning all the frost she could. She stood, stared at the greasy man and the bounty hunter. “What have you done with my grandfather?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a barely perceptible pause, a moment where the whispers stilled and the whole world seemed to suck in a harsh breath. Then chains rattled, a face pressed against the bars. “Irisviel,” Grandfather’s voice, broken and cracked, all gruffness from before drained away, “You’re back. The monster - you escaped her!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The greasy man clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Don’t be a fool. There’s no monster in the woods. This town has been here for years and there’s been no trouble except the recent bandits. Your grandpappy has cracked right through, girl. He’s not stable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel opened her mouth to protest, to say something, anything, but the other man, Kiritsigu, spoke. “It’s a messy business. There was that castle . . .” his voice trailed off, then he shook his head, “snd the woman and the wolf, that was undeniably odd. But according to my sources, he’s been selling fake potions to neighboring towns, so he has a history of lying. And he has admitted to keeping you locked up your whole life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you she’s -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman, Maiya, crossed her arms. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t blame you for running away. As for the castle, I don’t know what we saw. We’d been patrolling the woods for weeks before rushing off to find it, and when we left, we couldn’t find our way back. I’m convinced it was a hallucination brought upon by Kiritsigu’s cooking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a monster!” Grandfather burst out. His fingers wrapped around the bars, his face pressed against the metal, his red eyes wide and wild. “I saw her, she wore human skin but was not human! She imprisoned me, took my daughter, and threatened everyone here! She’s dangerous and she’ll kill us a -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ARTORIA IS NOT A MONSTER!” Irisviel burst out. She spun around, staring at the townsfolk, the two mercenaries, and the greasy man. “But Grandfather isn’t crazy either! There is a castle in the woods. Artoria is its King, not a monster. She’s not a monster.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The greasy man snorted. “Please, a woman cannot be King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel fought back a cry of frustration. “She is! And -” she cut herself off. She couldn’t say that Artoria wasn’t dangerous, because she was. As long as she was cursed, she was a danger. But she was still Artoria, and that counted for something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Prove it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The greasy man stepped forwards. “Prove it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gestured at Maiya and Kiritsigu. “They were there! They saw us!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Once again,” Maiya said, “I don’t know what I saw.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiritsigu sighed. “And if what we saw was true, then your Grandfather has valid claims about that woman being dangerous. There was something about her . . . something . . . off. Not entirely human.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, Einzbern,” the greasy man folded his arms. “Prove it. Or we cart your Grandfather away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stared at him, hot eyed, fear slipping through her blood. What if she did? What then? This greasy little man might send Kiritsigu and Maiya to fight Artoria, to kill her, and when they came back dead, he would summon the army or something, or Artoria would find her way out of limbo and kill them all for posing a threat to Camelot. And if she didn’t, Grandfather would be carted away, and she would never see him again. And she doubted that anyone would ever let her near the woods. But Artoria . . . Artoria had changed and maybe that was enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel closed her eyes, put herself back in that dance room, with Artoria’s arms around her, those flecks of blue green in her eyes, her almost expression. She’d changed, for the better. Perhaps . . . Perhaps it would be okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She reached down into her bag and pulled out her mirror. There was a collective gasp as the light hit the surface. The petals of the flowers blazed, the surface flashed with the sun’s rays. How different it was from the people around her, their worn clothing, hems spattered with mud, their faces tired and suspicious. The mirror shone like a jewel. The metal sparkled. Irisviel brought it to her chest and said. “This is the mirror King Artoria of Camelot gave to me.” She glared at the greasy man, “and now, I will use it to prove that my grandfather is not insane, and that she is not a monster.” She looked down and murmured softly, “Show me Artoria.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her breath rushed across the glass, a picture bloomed in its depths. A room, a bedroom, with tangled sheets and walls scoured with deep scratches, edges blackened and burnt. A figure paced across the floor, a dark swirling dress, flashing with silver embroidery. Hair, normally pulled so impeccable in a bun, hung loose around her shoulders, somehow caught between gold and silver. In one hand she held her black and red sword, the tip dragged against the ground with each step she took.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a harsh breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria glanced up, and Irisviel almost dropped the mirror. Her eyes . . . they’d changed. One was still the pale yellow she’d know, but the pupil was silted, colored dark gold. And the other . . . the other was the same blue green as the picture in Merlin’s tower. Like a lake, dark and troubled and lonely. Her face was torn too, somewhere between expression and the lack of it. She looked . . . pained, as if something was ripping her apart from the inside out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Artoria.” Irisviel breathed, and something in Artoria’s face relaxed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me see that.” The mirror was yanked from her grasp, the greasy man peered into the depths. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And screamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel jumped back, her heart racing. Both Maiya and Kirtsigu drew their weapons. People began to shuffle, to murmur, their voices rising to a clamor. Grandfather fell back into his cage, pale fingers leaving the bars. The man dropped the mirror. It hit the ground with a desolate thump. Irisviel caught a flash of Artoria’s face, twisted from something that might have been relief to something that might have been fury.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world seemed to fall quiet, or perhaps it was simply the ringing in her ears, the shock as it froze her limbs. The greasy man was shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words, his lips seemed to move silently. Maiya and Kiritsigu were moving, Kiritsigu to pick up the mirror, Maiy to grab her arm. She could feel the grip, but just barely. He had screamed . . . why had he screamed? It was just Artoria, torn by the curse yes, but still working through it. There was no reason to scream, there’d been no reason to scream -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiritsigu’s face paled. “That is not human.” He turned the mirror around, and Irisviel saw Artoria, her dual colored eyes, the armor that had snapped into place around her form, her burning sword blazing dark with power. “That is a danger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “No, she’s not, you’re wrong! She’s not a danger, she’s not a monster!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You two are supposed to protect the village!” The greasy man wailed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir, we are supposed to hunt down your bandits.” Maiya said, her voice clipped. “Not . . . whatever that was.” There was a shake in her voice on those last words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiritsugu frowned. “Maiya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighed, “Very well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cold sliced through Irisviel’s limbs, she could feel the panic bubbling up in her throat. She began to struggle. Maiya’s grip tightened. “You can’t! You don’t know what you’ll be doing - please! You can’t! You -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lock her up with her grandfather!” The greasy man ordered. “She’ll get in the way otherwise. Someone get a messenger! We need to call the city! We need soldiers, anything!” His voice was wild and fearful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maiya dragged Irisviel to the cart, and no matter how much she kicked or struggled the woman’s grip would not break. Kiritsigu unlocked the door, swung it open. She could see Grandfather, chains at his wrists and ankles, looking thin and weak in the cart’s depths. “I’m sorry about this.” He said softly, then Maiya pushed her inside. The door shut, she heard the lock click, then she and Grandfather were left in the dark gloom, alone and helpless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. With the Daughter Locked Up, a Mob Moved Against the Beast</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey everyone! Happy (late) Valentine's day! Thank you all for you comments and kudos, and I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel stumbled to her feet and collapsed against the door of the cart, banging at it with her fists. “You can’t do this! Don’t do this! Let us out!” Outside, she could hear the murmur of voices, the stamp of feet, the chaos from the crowd. Panic washed through her limbs. Her voice cracked and fell to pieces. She slumped against the door, her head sagged against the wood. Her shoulders were shaking with restrained sobs. It was over, somehow she knew it to the very marrow of her bones. If Artoria killed those that now hunted her, she would be stuck forever as their Beast. And Irisviel could not get out to stop her in time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Iri,” Grandfather said, his voice a rasp. She twisted around to stare at him, back against the door. He looked so fragile there, breakable and old. His chains rattled when he spoke. “It will be okay. They’ll kill the Beast, and they’ll see that we were right, and they’ll let us out. There’s no reason to worry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iri just stared at him. “Don’t deceive yourself Grandfather, we both know that Artoria will kill them when she finds them.” Anger welled up, black and bitter. She shoved it back down and looked away. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m proud of you.” He said softly, “You escaped. You survived being the servant of that monster.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel tightened her lips, then stood. She couldn’t give up now. She Wouldn’t give up now. She brushed off her skirt with short, precise movements, even though it did not need to be brushed off. “First off, Grandfather,” her voice was cold, “Artoria is not a monster.” She turned to face the door, took a few steps back. “Second off, I am her friend, not her servant. And I refuse to let her face this alone.” She took another step back, then lunged, shoulder first, at the door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The King knew when things changed. Irisviel’s voice, sweet in her ear, then another, darker and more disgusting. A scream. Panicked voices. Irisviel’s again, raised in protest, desperate and pleading. Anger blasted through her limbs, violent and dangerous. A king was not supposed to be angry, but a king was supposed to protect what was theirs, and Irisviel was hers. She was a denizen of Camelot, and the King would do whatever it took for her people.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stalked down the halls of Camelot, the blackened Excalibur burning in her grip, her dress swishing with each step, the red cracks in her dark armor blazing furiously. Each footstep was sharp and deliberate. Her breath steamed in front of her. In her veins, her blood boiled. They had dared to touch Irisviel, to hurt her. She would destroy them, burn them all down. She would make Camelot safe. She would make Irisviel safe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Objects were clustering the halls, poking out of doorways, watching her progress as they shook like leaves. Cavall was with them, pressed against a doorway, whimpering with a teacup at his side. Someone pushed out of the throng. “My king!” Sir Bedivere, the weakest of her knights, but the only one willing to face her. How brave. How stupid. “Please, you can’t-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irisviel needs me.” She spoke over him, her voice sharp and cold and punctuated with a growl. “If you stand in my way, I will obliterate you.” She spun around, staring at her knights and her staff. “You will stay in Camelot. Any who follow me will be destroyed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shocked pause, Sir Bedivere bowed low. “Of course, my king.” His voice was soft and shaky, scared. She didn’t care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unimpeded, she continued on. Towards the world that threatened her people. Towards Irisviel.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The fifth time she hit the door with her shoulder, the wood gave way, yawning open with a crack. She tumbled to the ground, her hands and elbows struck cobblestone. Pain flared, but she ignored it, scrambling to her feet instead. She could hear her grandfather’s protests. She didn’t care, she had tuned them out with the second try. She spun around, saw his wide eyes, the glint of his chains, the fear and disbelief on his face. “I’ll be back.” Then she was running, feet pounding against stone, her shoulder throbbing with each heartbeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria. Her name pulsed with Irisviel’s heart, sang in her blood. Arotria. Through town, whose buildings were locked and shuttered tight, people empty from the streets and taverns. Artoria. Out of town, grass tickled her ankles as she ran. Artoria. Into the woods, stumbling over roots and stone, ears straining for any sign of battle. Artoria. Towards Camelot. Towards Artoria.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The trees closed around her, dark, shadowy, as if trying to hide things more dangerous than the woman who walked through them now. The pain had settled, a low thrum in the back of her mind. Camelot was in danger, Irisviel was in danger, there was no time to figure the pain out. Something was clicking back into place. Cold. Numbness. She didn’t remember leaving it behind but she must have. Grass and moss and leaves crunched under foot. The trees whispered with the wind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Excalibur shone in her hand, red gleaming against the black. She could feel the pulse of mana through her blood, hot and burning and dangerous. The forest was silent except for the trees and her. No birds, no insects. The whole word was holding its breath for what would come next. She took another step forwards, eyes blazing as she peered at shadows. Where were her enemies? They were coming, they were coming she knew that to the marrow of her bones. So where were they?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometime later, measured only by her steaming breaths, she stopped. She knew this place. The trees scorched by fire, some toppled with places turned to cinder. A few boulders, cut in half, melted, streaked with dark marks. Her sword dipped slightly, she remembered . . . a fight, a struggle. She’d been protecting - no, she’d been escaping, or -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A whistle, sharp through the air, she spun around, Excalibur swinging up to swipe the crossbow bolt from the air. Her thoughts, her memories, snapped into place. It didn’t matter what had happened here. The only thing that mattered was the intruders who dared step onto her land. Her eyes met dark ones, the shape of a man, quickly fading into the shadows. Mana pulsed through her limbs, Excalibur blazed, shooting her forwards. Someone stepped from the trees to her side, an arc of silver in her hands. The King shot past her, knocking the sword away, Excalibur dipping towards the woman's chest. She leaned back, the blade scraped off her chest plate, drawing a gouge across the metal. Another faint whistle, she spun, Excalibur smacked another arrow out of the air. She spun around again, bringing Excalibur down, but the woman had already faded away into the woods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hide and seek? Fine. She would play their game then rip them from limb to limb. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel found the path to Camelot easier then she had expected, and soon she was rushing through the garden, up the stairs and through the door and into the main hall. It was filled with objects, packed atop one another. Above them the painting of Guinevere stared down at her, a welcoming smile still fixed onto her face. The scratched and burnt canvas where Artoria’s face had been suddenly seemed like an omen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, she would not let that happen. She could not let that happen. But neither could she hear the clang of weapons, the cries of pain she’d expected from a battle. Perhaps she was too late, perhaps they were already dead and Artoria marching on the real world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where is she?” Her voice was breathless, desperate. “Where is she?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The objects shifted slightly, but it was Lancelot who stepped out of the crowd. His flames wavered nervously. They cast dancing shadows across the floor. “My lady, she has gone to face the intruders.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you didn’t follow?” Her voice rose wildly. “If she -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We know.” Sir Gawain’s voice cut through the mob. His clock face ticked mournfully. “But she is our king, and she has ordered us to stay here. Even if we could, we cannot catch up to her.” He sighed, a resigned sound. “Lancelot should go with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” The candlestick blurted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you.” Sir Gawain snapped. “You’re the only one of us who is no longer her subject. And Irisviel will need something to light her way through the woods, and you’re the only one who can!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot rocked on his base, but bowed, wicks dipping to the stone floor. “You’re right.” He said softly. He turned to Irisviel. “My lady, I will help you find the king, but I do think I will be helpful in calming her down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’M COMING TOO!” It was a yell of determination. Sir Mordred pushed out of the crowd, past Sir Bedivere who tried to block his path, past Cavall who was held back by Sir Kay, past them all till he stood in front of Irisviel. “I can help.” The teacup said, Lancelot’s firelight playing over his porcelain surface. “I swear I can help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel bent, her skirts pooling on the floor. “Are you certain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The teacup jump. “Yes.” There was steel in his wild voice. “I will make sure F - the King does not turn Mo - Morgan’s curse on the outside world.” Something softer. “He would not have wanted that. It is . . . I have too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” A hubbub arose, but Irisviel cut through them all. “We’re wasting time! I’m leaving with Lancelot and Sir Mordred. We will be back with the King!” She stood, scooping Mordred in her palms and set the teacup in her bag. Then she scooped up Lancelot, striding towards the door with her skirts flaring like a white banner in her wake.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They were watching her. Somehow they knew her movements, and were able to keep track of her place. She didn’t care. Only cowards hid in the shadows to strike. But despite their cowardice, they were talented, playing a game of tag through the trees. The woman would pop up, blade in hand, and the man would shoot while the King was dealing with her. Then they would both fade into the shadows, and the chase would begin again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King was tired of this chase. When she found them she would pin them down and rip them from limb to limb. She would manage, her tally of injuries counted of one arrow in her arm and a scratch across her face. The woman’s tally consisted of a broken arm, the token from their last fight, a slash across her legs, and a deep cut where the King had shattered her armor. The man was unscathed so far, but only because he had refused to show his face. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t escape the punishment of trespassing on her property. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blazed through the woods, a dark star with burning eyes, searching, searching for her prey. She cut down another bolt before it could reach, slashed down a tree that stood between her and the swordswoman. The trees were different, no longer marred with the evidence of battles long ago. They were removed from the woods around Camelot, newer looking. Light was filtering through the branches, different then the type she was used to, but she didn’t pay attention. It didn’t matter. They were leading her somewhere. That didn’t matter either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All that mattered was taking their heads. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jumped over a fallen log, her foot hit the wood, she shot forwards, bringing her blade down on the woman’s darting form. She dropped and rolled to the side, Excalibur crashed against the ground, sending up a flurry of leaves and dirt, blackening and burning away. The woman stumbled to her feet. Her sword was seethed, a knife left her hand, the King batted it away with her gauntlet. Something whistled through the air, she spun around, slapped the bolt away. The woman ran, another knife skittered across the King’s armor. The man ran too, in the opposite direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She made her choice. The woman was barely a threat with her one working arm and other injuries. The man was uninjured and fought from the shadows. The bigger coward of the two. She would not allow him to live. She dove after him, through the trees, Excalibur ready in her grip.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Beast and the Hunter Fought</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thank you all for your comments and kudo's! I hope you enjoy and have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The man kept ahead of the King, darting through the shadows, keeping her at bay with his crossbow. She could not close the gap. The trees were too crowded together, and cutting through them slowed her down. Beneath her feet, the ground dipped and rose, cluttered with leaves and twisted roots and tiny rocks. That, at least, didn’t matter. Her feet barely touched the ground, then she was propelled forwards. The only problem was steering around the trees. And his aim. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d taken another crossbow bolt. It was buried in her shoulder, right beside her chest plate. She’d yet to remove it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This coward was an expert shot. Even through the trees, even though she was moving, even though he was moving, he had still managed to draw blood. It made her own blood boil. He and his associate where cowards through and through, had invaded her territory, had taken Irisviel from her. They would not survive. None of them would survive. She would make Camelot safe. No matter what.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her power blazed hotter. She reversed Excalibur in her grip. Let him shoot, let him injure her, it would not matter. She would take his head. She felt her visor form, crackling across her face. Cool metal touched her skin. Her vision went dark. She could feel her mana burn, burn, burn through her blood. She let it go. It roared through her limbs, out from her sword, sending her rocketing forwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hit wood, she could feel the impact to the very marrow of her bones, but it was the tree that gave way, trunk shattering as she shot through it. She felt the shards draw sharp against what remained visible of her face. It didn’t matter. The forest wouldn’t stop her from taking this man’s head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She felt the air split as he took another opportunity to shoot. She ignored the pain as it buried into her thigh, ignored the second arrow as it scraped off her chest plate. She tilted Excalibur to the side, blasting past one tree, her arm scraping against the bark. She couldn’t see, it didn’t matter. Instinct guided her now. She could hear the man’s heartbeat, dangerously calm, his even breaths. It guided her from below the roar of her own power and the sound of falling trees she left in her wake. She could smell the heady scents of the forest, green and alive, mixed with char and smoke. She could taste the air on her tongue, sweet with the faintest taste of bitterness. The light was warm where it struck her, she could feel it through both armor and cloth. The pain had dulled to a low throb, centered in her wounds. Her head no longer split. Of course it wouldn’t, she was doing the right thing. All invaders must be eliminated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man changed direction, she heard it in his step. She cut off the flow of power to Excalibur and crashed against the ground, sabatons cutting a furrow through the leaves. She twisted, then shot off again. Wood splintered, trees fell, with each impact she felt it less and less. Minute adjustments to her grip on Excalibur threaded her through the trees. She tilted her head, an crossbow bolt shot along her cheek. His breath was growing frantic now, he was reaching the end of his endurance. Of course he was, he was only human after all. A weak, cowardly, human. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She would outlast him. She would kill them. And then she would kill all that threatened her kingdom. The world would burn but Camelot would be safe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was her duty as King.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was easy to tell the path Artoria had taken. It was in the fallen trees, the burnt swaths land. A trail of destruction she had left in her wake. Irisviel followed it as fast as she was able too. Each breath plumed in her throat, there was an ache in her ribs, the soles of her feet hurt. But all of that was pushed away by the adrenaline that rushed through her veins. She felt that if she stopped, she would shake apart. She had been running for so long, what was it like when the world was a standstill? It was all she could do not to trip and fall, but then the world would stop rushing, and maybe she could tell where she was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In her hand, Lancelot’s flames wavered. He leaned forwards, casting wavering circles of light that highlighted the ground in front of her. She couldn’t look at him, nor at the rushing woods all around. Her eyes were glued to the forest floor, picking out dips and rocks and roots. She couldn’t slow down. She wouldn’t slow down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right!” Lancelot called.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice filtered through the rush of blood that pounded against her ears. She turned and nearly slid. Her eyes caught and held on a drop of blood, glistening against the wilted leaves of a bush. Whose was it? Maiya’s? Kiritsigu’s? Or, the impossibility of it made her despair, Artoria’s? She didn’t know, she couldn’t know. She ripped her eyes away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Faster!” Sir Mordred cried, his voice muffled by the bag, “We have to go faster!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She couldn’t reply, but the urgency in his voice spurred her on. She bunched her fingers in her skirt, pulling it higher up around her legs. Her skin was scraped and torn by branches, her hair tangled and full of twigs, her shoulder throbbed with each jarring footfall. It didn’t matter, what mattered was finding Artoria before it was too late. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The woods.” Lancelot’s voice quivered. “No, no no no no. It’s not possible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wanted to rasp out a question, but she didn’t have the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Use your words!” Sir Mordred shouted back. “What the fuck is going on!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re - the woods, they’re changing!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel felt his words, and the despair they caused crashed against her mind. No, it couldn’t be. But it was. She was having an easier time seeing now, a light different then Camelot’s moon or Lancelot’s flame was picking out the ground in front of her. Limbo, Artoria had found a way out of limbo. She felt her stomach drop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It might already be too late.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The world around her had changed, the King could feel it in the air, in the way sound echoed back differently. The ground on one side was rising, the rocks and stones growing larger. The trees were growing sparser too, it was the boulders she had to worry about hitting now. Shards of stone cut deeper than splinters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d taken a couple more crossbow bolts, another one in her leg, two in her upper arms. It did not matter, these inconsequential wounds would not make her drop Excalibur. And she was close, she could feel it. She could hear the cowards footsteps echoing through. Just a little bit more, just a little bit further - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jumped forwards, stopping the thrum of power and flying through the air. She brought Excalibur down hard, letting the energy burn its way through her limbs again. There was a grunt of pain, her blade hit rock and the earth shattered. Missed. No, not missed completely, she could taste a change in the air. Blood. She spun around, sword slicing through air, but the man ducked away again. There was a grunt of pain, then footsteps scrambled against stone. He was climbing. As if he could escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Preposterous, there was no escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leapt, too late. She could feel the bolt coming, the snap of the crossbow, the whistle as the bolt cut through air. She spun Excalibur in her grip, let her mana fly. Too late. Too late. The bolt caught her visor, shattering upon impact, there was a loud crack. The next bolt hit her visor directly, this time it too fractured and broke. And then . . . LIGHT. It streamed into her eyes with the violence of an enemy attack. Her mana faltered, she crashed against the ground, unable to catch herself. Her eyes were screaming out, tears leaked from the pain. She couldn’t see, it was just light. Brilliant, unfiltered, sunlight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d forgotten how vibrant that light was, had grown too used to Camelot’s moon. And now with that light stabbing knives into her eyes and deeper into her skull, she could barely see, barely move. It was an overwhelming assault of her senses, that sunlight. She gasped for breath, closing her eyes. It didn’t help. It didn’t help at all. The cool darkness was gone, even with her eyes closed the dark was tainted red.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps, she could hear the stone crunch against boots. The man, the battle. Forget this sun and the pain that came with it, she had powered through worse. Her grip tightened on Excalibur, she began to push herself up. That familiar click of a crossbow, she tossed herself to the side and the bolt skidded off her fauld. Then she was up and moving, Excalibur powering her attack. Her blade thunked against wood, the crossbow. Good, she shoved and the man went flying. His air left his chest as he impacted something, a boulder, possibly the ground. She couldn’t tell. She stepped forwards, Excalibur at the ready. He didn’t move. She could hear his wheezing breath. Possibly a few ribs broken then, very well. She could end his cowardice here then. She raised her sword. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An explosion, it was the only way she could describe whatever that sound was. It was violently loud, swiftly followed by a burst of pain in her hand. For a moment she couldn’t believe it. Her gauntlet, her gauntlet protected her hand from attack, nothing should have been able to penetrate it, but then Excalibur slipped from her numb fingers and clattered against rock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maiya,” the man, his voice was a wheeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up Kiritsugu.” The woman’s voice was cold. “The money is worth your life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man wheezed again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King turned, her hands falling to her sides. Carefully, she opened her eyes, squinting at the woman. She stood there with her broken arm and ripped leg and battered armor, blood weeping from various wounds and burns and bruises blackening her face, but the weapon she held was steady. Smoke spiraled from the tip of the contraction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you know that you just cost us a lot of money, beast. Bullets are expensive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, the King considered her, then she looked at the man. Blood trickled from his lips, he had a gash on his shoulder, his jacket splayed out like the wings of a broken bird. In a blur of movement Excalibur was back in the grip of her uninjured hand. She pointed the blade at the woman. “It does not matter. In a moment you will be dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman did not smile, but there was determination in her gaze. “We’ll see.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stumbled to a halt when that </span>
  <em>
    <span>sound</span>
  </em>
  <span> broke the air. She wasn’t sure how else to say it. The very noise of whatever it was jarred her to her bones. But she didn’t fall, and that was the important part. She had to keep moving. She had to -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck was that?!” Mordred’s voice sounded tinny and faint in her ringing ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Lancelot murmured, “but it can’t have been good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel gasped. She felt so weak, but that sound, that sound, she had to be close. She didn’t know what she’d do if she wasn’t. With a shaking breath she started forwards again. The area around her had changed, the trees broken and blackened, the earth scorched. A while back there had been a momentary break before the blast had changed direction. Artoria was using all her strength in this battle, and somehow Maiya and Kiritsigu were keeping up, or at least ahead of her. Then again, the terrain would have worked against - no, this was no time to think. She took another step forwards, then another, and another, fast and faster, feet pounding against the earth. She fell into rhythm again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Forwards. Footfall, inhale, footfall, exhale. Forwards. Footfall, inhale, footfall, exhale. Again and again and again. She no longer needed Lancelot’s flames to light the way, the sunlight did it for her. She thought that maybe, maybe she could see the end of this burnt pathway, maybe, just maybe she could hear voices. The thought filled her with energy. So close, she was so close. Just a little bit more then - another burst of sound, brilliant and painful and so so loud, and with it, a furious cry of pain. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. The Hunter Dealt a Fatal Blow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thanks so much for your comments and kudos and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pain. Real pain, sharp and stinging. The King faltered. She couldn’t feel her fingertips. Excalibur slipped from them and clattered against the ground. Her breath shuttered in her throat. Something gurgled past her lips and ran down her chin. Blood. It dripped across her armor, she could feel it soaking her clothes. Blood. No. No. She had her duty, she couldn’t fall. She had too . . . Camelot . . . Irisviel. Irisviel . . . She had lost sight of . . .</p>
<p>She crumbled.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Irisviel broke through just as Artoria fell. She saw the moment, crystallized in time. It would haunt her dreams forever. Maiya, standing there, broken and bleeding with a weapon in her hands. Kiritsigu half off the ground, a similar shape in his hands, tip smoking. And Artoria. Artoria who stood there in her dark dress and armor, a shadow against the daylight. Artoria with crossbow bolts sticking out of the joints in her armor. Artoria, Excalibur dropping from her fingertips. Artoria with her lips and chin painted red. Artoria, crumbling as all the strength faded from her limbs.</p>
<p>“ARTORIA!” Her name burst from Irisviel’s lips, so violent she could have sworn that she tasted blood. Dimly she could hear Sir Mordred’s and Lancelot’s own calls.</p>
<p>“FATHER!”</p>
<p>“MY KING!”</p>
<p>She didn’t think she could move any faster, but somehow she managed. She skidded to a halt in front of Kiritsigu, arms out, dress tugged by her momentum. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a neat hole in Artoria’s armor. Cold sliced through her. Her thoughts froze. She couldn’t think -</p>
<p>“HOW DARE YOU!” That voice was a roar of unhinged fury. Something shot out of her bag. The sunlight caught the curved sides of the tea cup as it flew. Sir Mordred slammed into Kiritsigu’s face and the man toppled back against the ground. </p>
<p>Lancelot pulled from her grip and dropped to the ground. “Take care of the King, lady Irisviel.” He said shortly. His normal melancholy had been burned away. Now, he sounded furious. “I will take care of the woman.”</p>
<p>Irisviel barely heard him. She crumpled to the ground and grabbed Artoria, dragging her into her lap. Somehow, someway, Artoria was still breathing. Irisviel could hear her pained rasps. She tried to wipe the blood from Artoria’s scratched up face. Red smeared against her hands. Her vision was blurry, she couldn’t see clearly. Warmth traced down her cheek. Her tears splattered against Artoria’s skin. “Artoria, Artoria please, please stay with me.”</p>
<p>Artoria’s eyes flickered open. The dichotomy of them hurt, one blazing yellow, the other blue-green. “Iri — Irisviel,” her voice was a rasp. A sob ripped from Irisviel’s throat. Artoria’s hand reached up, Irisviel felt the cool metal of her gauntlet against her cheek. “Do — do not be sad, Irisviel. This — this is not your fault.”</p>
<p>Irisviel shook her head. “No, no you can’t! Artoria please, I don’t . . . I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you!” She reached up and pressed her hand against Artoria’s gauntlet. “Please, Artoria. You can’t leave me.”</p>
<p>Artoria chuckled, and Irisviel froze. Artoria had never chuckled before, and even now, while dying, the sound was rich and soft. “Oh Irisviel, to think I lost sight of you . . .” She closed her eyes and smiled slightly. “I promise you, my lady, that I shall never again . . . lose sight . . . of you . . .”</p>
<p>“Artoria!” Irisviel bent, her hair hiding them both. “No, no no no no no no no no no please no. Oh, god no . . . Artoria. Please, please don’t go. I . . . I love you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Love, in some corner of the King’s mind, the word caught. Love . . . Irisviel loved her. (But kings were not supposed to be loved.) And the King . . . she loved . . . (kings were not supposed to love) . . . Camelot . . . and her people . . . and . . . Irisviel. The headache returned, sudden and blinding. The King fought back, pushing through the pain, and opened her eyes once more. </p>
<p>Irisviel was a sight to behold. Her hair hung limply, decorated with leaves and twigs and dirt. Little scratches marred her skin, tiny dots of blood. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes red, face twisted with sobs.  The King’s gauntlet rested against her cheek, Irisviel’s hand pressed against the metal. Beneath the King’s head, she could feel Irisviel’s lap. So close yet so far away. Dying. The King was dying. And Irisviel bent over her, so alive, so desperate. How could she not fight back?</p>
<p>Her breath whistled out in a painful gust. Her inhale rattled in her throat. She could taste the iron on her tongue. It wouldn’t stop her, she had things to say. “Iri — Irisviel. How can I leave . . . if leaving means losing you? You brought me back to myself . . . and I was to blind to see it. Thank you, Irisviel. Thank you . . . and I . . . I love you too.” </p>
<p>Irisviel made some sort of sound in her throat, another choked back sob. A tear splashed against the King’s cheek. “Artoria, I don’t know what I’ll do if you go. You gave me so much. A chance at a life I never knew existed. If you die, I don’t —" She broke off again, eyes squeezing shut.</p>
<p>“I won’t go.” The King pushed the words past her throat, past the pain, past the darkness lapping at the recesses of her mind. “I promise you I won’t go, Irisviel.” Something was burning in her chest, harsh and warm, almost searingly painful. Each breath was harder now. She could not leave, she would not leave. She tried to push herself up with one arm, it attempted to buckle beneath her weight. The crossbow bolts burned like fire in the wounds. Poison? It would be just like a coward to tip the bolts with poison. It didn’t matter. “If it would please you, my lady, a kiss to seal the promise?”</p>
<p>Irisviel looked at her, ruby eyes wide. She nodded. “Yes,” it was a gasped out word. Carefully, she bent, her lips closing over the King’s own. At that moment, there was no world around them, no death nipping at her heels. Just Irisviel’s smooth lips, cool against hers, and the feeling of something deep inside clicking into place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sir Mordred knew it when the bastard who had hurt Father tossed him off his face. One moment he was whistling through the air, knowing he was about to hit a rock and shatter, knowing that Sir Bedivere would be absolutely pissed — then he was not. He twisted midair. His sabatons hit the ground, and he skidded to a halt. In his hands, Clarent was a welcome weight. Mordred grinned. Back. He was back.</p>
<p>Which meant Father was back.</p>
<p>With a roar, he lunged forwards, a blast of red lighting, headed straight for that bastard’s head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lancelot knew it when the woman swept at him with her sword. It didn’t hit the metal of arms, or his body, didn’t send him flying. It hit Aroundight, and he didn’t go anywhere. The woman’s eyes widened at that, the pain that had been written across her face melting into shock. Lancelot thrust her guard wide open. “You should have never hurt my king.”</p>
<p>He brought Aroundight down to finish her off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It rolled through Camelot in a wave. In Irisviel’s room, a cabinet fell to her knees, armor clanking. In Artoria’s office, a pen rolled off the desk and struck the floor as a man. In the main hall, objects rose as humans, knights and servants together. Sir Bedivere, Sir Gawain, and Sir Kay struggled to their feet and stumbled out the door on weak legs still unused to walking. Their king. They had to reach their king. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Merlin saw the incident from Avalon. He fell to the ground, mouth gaping, eyes wide. Disbelief warred with delight on his face. Delight won out. Irisviel had done it, she had done it. And just in time too. The spell holding limbo was unraveling. Camelot was rejoining the world. And Morgana . . . her fate had been tied to Camelot. As Camelot rejoined the world, so would she. There was one last spell he needed to cast, one last connection he needed to sever. </p>
<p>Merlin pushed himself up, and with a flourish, stepped out of his tower doors and into the real world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She woke in darkness. Breathed in the magic. Her bonds had loosened. She imagined slipping out of them and out she was. She lifted her veil and tasted the air. Camelot was free, the world would be hers, and Arthur . . . was gone. She could no longer feel the spell she had woven across Arthur’s mind. Free. Arthur was free. </p>
<p>How? Rage filled her. HOW?!</p>
<p>Never mind how. She smoothed her face and let her veil fall. She still had one chess piece in play. </p>
<p>“Finish the job, my son.”<br/><br/></p>
<p>🜲</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Irisviel gasped as the spell rolled over her, Artoria’s lips feverish against hers. The hand on her cheek spasmed. Irisviel pulled back, panic fluttering in her throat. Artoria was . . . changing. Light leaked from the circle in her armor, spilled from the rest of her wounds in dazzling beams. A few paces away, Excalibur crumbled. Artoria gasped, chest inflating, the light growing, brighter and brighter and brighter. Irisviel had to cover her eyes. Something pressed against her, pressure, a wind. It roared past her ears, yanking her hair back. She could feel the push against her arms and face. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the wind died down. Her hair fell to lay across her back. The light stopped slipping through the cracks. She put her arms down and gasped.</p>
<p>Artoria . . .</p>
<p>Artoria had changed. Her armor gleamed silver and blue, unbroken and brilliant. The black cloth of her dress had been dyed royal blue. Gold trimmed the edges of the cloth, her underskirt shone white with gray accents. Her skin was no longer sickly pale, but a healthy tan, her freckles no longer afterimages, spanning the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her hair shone a proper gold, the ribbon the same blue as her dress. In the sunlight it was effective as any crown. </p>
<p>Her eyes fluttered open, revealing blue-green orbs. The same blue-green shown on the painting in Merlin’s tower, made vibrant by reality. They seemed to draw in the light and reflect it tenfold. Two pools of shadowed water, flashes of lighter colors within. They practically glowed with the sun’s light, and Irisviel wondered how she had ever thought about a lake for Artoria’s eyes. They were clearly gemstone in nature.</p>
<p>She couldn’t breathe. “Artoria?”</p>
<p>Artoria blinked rapidly, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Irisviel couldn’t help but note that her pupils were slitted, dark against the brilliant blue-green. “Irisviel?” She stared up at Irisviel, confusion in her eyes. </p>
<p>Irisviel couldn’t think. Artoria’s voice . . . it was like song. Gentle and smooth, the type that quieted rooms because no one would dare interrupt it. </p>
<p>Someone roared. The sound broke their little moment, shattered her awe. Irisviel twisted sharply. Kiritsigu was standing and swaying, his weapon still in his hands. His cloak hung limp around his form. And something hurtled towards him, a figure encased in metal and red lightning, blade brought to bear. In front of Maiya was another figure, black armor, purple cloak, long tangled hair, sword swinging down.</p>
<p>“STOP!” </p>
<p>It was a command, allowing for no arguments. The tall man, Lancelot (?) halted mid-strike, sword inches from Maiya’s neck. The blur of red lightning skidded across the ground, sword dragging a furrow through the dirt and rubble as he slowed down his progress. The horned helm deconstructed. Irisviel was given the view of a face startlingly similar to Artoria’s, if a bit more wild and sharp. “Fa — my king! These people would dare to harm you, to hurt you! They should be punished in the name of Camelot!”</p>
<p>Irisviel’s eyes darted back down to Artoria’s face. No longer was Artoria confused, she looked composed, calm as if everything was under control. More masks. Then Artoria caught her eye and smiled, the smallest thing, before pushing herself up. Despite her injuries, despite her slight build, she commanded attention. “Sir Mordred, Lancelot, put down your weapons and step aside.”</p>
<p>“Of course, my king.” Lancelot murmured. His sword disappeared and he stepped away from Maiya. He kept his head bowed, face hidden by his hair. For a moment, Sir Mordred looked as if he was going to argue, then with a curse he too dismissed his weapon. He scowled at Kiritsigu, eyes blazing furiously. </p>
<p>Irisviel stood, trying to hide the trembling in her fingers. She knew what the King would have done, but Artoria as she was now . . . she glanced at Artoria, taking comfort in her calm face. Surely, nothing bad could happen when Artoria looked so peaceful.</p>
<p>“By all rights, I should end your lives.” Artoria said, chin tilted slightly up. “You invaded my castle, imprisoned one of my people, and sought to take my head. But on this day, you are lucky. There are far more important things to focus on than your attempts at murder. A threat greater than you could ever possess is coming. Leave, and thank that I feel lenient today.”</p>
<p>There was a pause. Kiritsigu wavered slightly, eyes narrowed. There was blood on his lips. “You should be dead.”</p>
<p>“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Sir Mordred screeched. “Get your asses out of here! Fa — the King has decided you get a second chance at your worthless lives, so you better make the fucking most of it! Scram! NOW!”</p>
<p>“Sir Mordred,” Lancelot said, his voice exhausted, “there are ladies present. Please try to keep the cussing to a minimum.”</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck off Lancelot. I still owe you a fist to the face.” </p>
<p>They fell silent. Lancelot and Sir Mordred stared angrily at one another. Artoria stood with her shoulders straight, waiting for them to make their choice. Irisviel could feel Kiritsigu’s and Maiya’s eyes on her, she did nothing but watch back. Finally, Maiya reached out and tugged on Kiritsigu’s sleeves. “Come on, it’s time to go.” </p>
<p>Kiritsigu’s lips worked, “If they are a danger —”</p>
<p>“Then they would have killed us. Come on.” Slowly, the two left, limping their way back into the woods.</p>
<p>Irisviel let out her breath in one long gust. All the strength seemed to drain from her limb, the day’s events catching up to her. It had been too much, too much all at once. Artoria turned, her eyes softening. “Irisviel.” She stepped forwards and took Irisviel’s hands in her. Her blue-green eyes searched Irisviel’s face carefully. “Things are about to get very dangerous.”</p>
<p>“I’m staying.” Irisviel murmured. “I’m staying with you.”</p>
<p>Artoria blinked, then softly, she smiled. She brought Irisviel’s hands to her lips and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “Very well, my lady. I will do my best to keep you safe. I promise you that.”</p>
<p>Irisviel nodded and bit her lip. “Who is coming?”</p>
<p>It was Sir Mordred who answered, voice strained. Irisviel glanced towards him. His helmet was back up again, she could see the gleam of his eyes through the visor. “Morgana le Fay.” He gasped, shoulder’s rising. “Half sister to Arthur Pendragon, and . . . and . . . my mother.” Red lightning crackled over his armor, flashing in spastic bursts. “I . . . I  . . . am . . . sorry . . . Fa . . . ther.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. At That Moment, the Daughter Realized Her Love for the Beast</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! I have news! We are almost to the end folks, got a couple more chapters (i would say four at max) and then we'll be through! So I would like to thank you all for your comments and kudos, and I hope you all have a wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Irisviel wished there was a moment to pause, a moment for Sir Mordred’s words to sink in. Morgana, Artoria’s sister, his mother? Artoria, his father? It didn’t make sense, was impossible to understand, and she didn’t get a chance to even try. Sir Mordred moved, a burst of red light headed straight towards Artoria. And herself. For a moment time seemed to freeze. Irisviel was positive that if she tried, she could count every freckle that adorned Artoria’s face. Then Artoria grabbed her and pushed her out of the way, her voice barking a command. “Sir Lancelot, keep Irisviel safe!” There was a clash of blades, gauntlets enclosed around Irisviel’s shoulders and drew her back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel let him. She could only stare in numb shock at Artoria and Sir Mordred. She couldn’t see Sir Mordred’s face, not behind the helmet. She could barely see his armor beneath the lightning that covered his limbs. Irisviel could see the way Artoria struggled with Mordred’s strike. Her face was blank again, eyebrows slightly narrowed in concentration. A sword was in her grip, it spilled gold light upon the scene, impossibly bright and beautiful. How? How could something so beautiful exist at this moment?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria shoved, blade slashing out as Sir Mordred was tossed back, his sabatons digging a furrow into the ground. Her voice slipped through the air, calm, and certain. “Sir Mordred. I do not remember much about the happenstance of the curse. But I remember you. I would hear your explanation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel heard Lancelot hiss behind her. He let go and placed himself before her, sword out, guard up. She stood there, frozen. She didn’t know what to do, what she could possibly do in a situation like this. Numbly, she remembered Sir Gareth’s recounting of that day’s events. She had said Sir Mordred was the first to fall to the King. Did that mean -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Father!” Sir Mordred’s voice broke on the word. It was a desperate plea, a cry for help. Irisviel raised her hand to her mouth. “Father, I -” His words choked off in a pained growl. He lunged forwards, his sword crashing against Artoria’s blade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria stumbled back. Her face twisted slightly, confusion flashing across her features. “Father?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred’s only response was a howl. He darted forwards, a blur of light, but Artoria was just as fast, matching him blow for blow. Each crash of blades sent shock waves ripping through the air. Irisviel covered her face. Air pressed against her arm, then the combatants were separated again. Irisviel blinked. Artoria was injured. The sleeve of one arm had been ripped open, blood stained the blue fabric purple. Sir Mordred’s armor was cracked. Pieces fell to the ground, revealing pale skin beneath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Mordred,” Artoria said, and somehow her voice was still calm, “I cannot understand if you do not explain it to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He can’t, Artoria.” A cheerful voice, light and playful despite the situations. “Puppets were never supposed to have voices of their own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred made some sort of sound, trapped between gargle and scream. He lunged again, not at Artoria, not at Irisviel, but at the newcomer that stepped out of thin air. In the daylight, Merlin’s hair shone with rainbow colors, his robes practically glowed. Flowers bloomed at his feet, blue-green shoots pushing out of the dirt and opening up into shining pink petals. He opened his eyes, caught the sight of Sir Mordred headed towards him, screamed, tripped on his robes, and fell back. Irisviel almost screamed as well, but Artoria was already there. Her blade smashed against Sir Mordred’s and once again he was thrown back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you Artoria!” Merlin wailed, “My life flashed before my eyes!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s lips twitched downwards. “Explain, Merlin, if Sir Mordred cannot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Back to normal I see,” Merlin’s eye flicked to Irisviel. “I guess you managed to fix things.” He smirked, “And Lancelot, how nice to see you too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot gritted his teeth. “We don’t have time for your games, wizard. Sir Mordred is trying to end the King’s life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Merlin’s eyes flickered. His face fell. “No, he’s fighting something else entirely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was another roar, Sir Mordred shot forwards again, and Artoria met him. She was slowing down, Irisviel could see it in the way Artoria barely brought her blade to stop Mordred’s strike. Running out of strength, and was it any wonder? She’d been through so much. Irisviel jerked her gaze away. “Merlin, explain! Or fix this! Do something!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sheesh,” Merlin whined. “You really work this wizard hard.” He stood and brushed off his robes, started to speak. Irisviel didn’t know the words, but she could feel the power in them. They rolled over her skin like a waft of cold air. Sir Mordred froze, his blade pulled back for another strike, a whine of pain escaping from his lips. Merlin continued speaking. Light was growing around him, bright and brilliant. Something started to appear around Sir Mordred, threads connecting at his wrists and elbows, his ankles and knees, and one very thick one at his neck. Merlin spoke one more word. The threads snapped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred collapsed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel ripped herself out of her shock and stumbled forwards. Lancelot stopped her. He shook his head. She understood the message all too well. Wait, don’t go yet, there could still be danger. She bit her lip and watched as Merlin stepped up beside Artoria. They were a picture together, one utterly inhuman, the other a King. Artoria’s sword spilled gold light onto the scene, gilding her armor and gracing Merlin’s robes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sir Mordred’s armor shattered, revealing the figure beneath. He was unconscious, pale skin encased in red cloth, his blonde hair spreading across the ground. A kid. And free, if the way Merlin’s shoulders slumped dramatically was anything to go by.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel stepped past Lancelot, up to Artoria’s side. She wanted to take Artoria’s hand and hold it in hers, to hold on and never let go. Another large part of her wanted to reach out to Sir Mordred, to keep him safe. She hated how small he looked laying on the ground before them. No child should look abandoned like that. “What are you going to do?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Artoria’s brow furrowed. Her eyes flicked to meet Irisviel’s. The blue-green orbs had darkened, no longer shining and clear but murky with confusion. “Keep him safe, at least until he can explain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel nodded. “Alright.” She slipped past Artoria, to the unconscious kid, so fragile and vulnerable. She knelt by Sir Mordred’s side and brushed the bangs from his face. “Lancelot, if you would help me. I would like to move him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pause, then footsteps headed her way. “Of course, my lady.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria watched as Lancelot lifted Sir Mordred into his arms. Irisviel stood up, brushing her hands over her skirt. Her brows were drawn in worry, her red eyes focused on Sir Mordred’s limp figure. Artoria wanted to go over there and place her hand on Irisviel’s shoulder. To tell her that everything would be okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your knights are coming.” Merlin said. “And so is </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria tightened her grip on Excalibur. “Sir Mordred called me father. Merlin, what did my sister do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Created a puppet.” Merlin’s answer was swift. “Someone with your likeness who was supposed to bring about your destruction. And when he didn’t, forced his hand. What will you do with him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know yet.” Artoria murmured. Irisviel reached out to check Sir Modred’s pulse. She moved carefully, as if he was something spun of glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Merlin followed her gaze and chuckled. “A pretty thing, isn’t she? And brave to.” His hand snuck out to pinch her cheek. “Awwww King Arthur’s finally grown up. Fallen in love and everything ~”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s eyebrow twitched. She batted Merlin’s hand away. “This is not the time for your ridiculousness Merlin. How soon until my knights arrive?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pouted. “A couple of minutes. They’re all running very fast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Morgana?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got luck, Arty. Your sister’s going to be a bit slower than your knights this time around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright.” She nodded then stepped past him. Towards Irisviel and Lancelot and the boy who had called her father.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Artoria,” Merlin’s voice halted her, “How much do you remember of the events leading up to the curse? And afterwards?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hesitated for a moment. “All of it.” Her reply came short and sharp. She started forwards again, to Irisviel’s side. She gave into the urge and laid her hand upon Irisviel’s shoulder. Irisviel glanced at her, eyes wide. In the daylight, she was a different picture entirely. Her pale skin was tinted with color from the sun’s rays, each strand of hair was highlighted with warm light. Her ruby eyes glowed from between her dark lashes. A picture of beauty, strong and brave despite how fragile she looked. Artoria tightened her grip on Irisviel’s shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to be present. “How is he doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s alive.” Irisviel answered. She leaned into Artoria’s grip and ran a hand through her twig adorned hair. “He’s alive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.” Artoria murmured. “Lancelot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot straightened. His voice came out ready for her command. “My king.” He towered over both her and Irisviel, his long tangled hair casting shadows across his face. In his arms Sir Mordred looked as frail as a sun beam. Artoria found herself searching for the differences between her own visage and his. There were a few. His features were a bit sharper than hers, even when smoothed out in sleep. The difference helped ease her mind slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria pulled her shoulders back and tucked away her questions for later. She squeezed Irisviel’s shoulder then dropped her arm. “Morgana is coming. The other knights are coming as well, and although Merlin believes they will be here before her, I do not wish to risk it. Not Sir Mordred’s safety. Not Irisviel’s. I am entrusting their safety to you.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Lancelot dropped his gaze. She would have to have a conversation with him after this, but that was a task for later. His voice was soft when he spoke. “Of course, my king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not leaving you.” Irisviel murmured. Her hands closed over Artoria’s gauntlets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria turned to look at her. She reached out to trace her fingers over Irisviel’s cheeks. It was tempting to dismiss her armor so she could feel Irisviel’s skin beneath her own, but she would not risk it. “I know, Irisviel.” She swayed closer, allowing her forehead to lay against Irisviel’s own. “I know, yet I would not have Morgana strike you down. I would have you safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel smiled gently. “That sweet, Artoria.” She closed the gap, her lips pressing against Artoria’s. She pulled back just as quickly. Her ruby eyes glowed with conviction. “I am not leaving you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s nice lovebirds!” Merlin called, and Artoria’s eyebrow twitched. “But as much as I’m enjoying the show, we really don’t have time for a make out session.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am going to execute my court mage,” Artoria murmured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel giggled. “Do it after this battle, alright?” She cupped Artoria’s cheek, thumb running over her lip. “Stay safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My word as king.” Artoria murmured, leaning into the touch. “You do the same, Irisviel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel nodded. “Always.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Knights of Camelot burst out of the woods in a wave of glittering metal. Irisviel, from where she stood by Lancelot’s side, had a hard time distinguishing them from one another. They were all so tall, his long cloaks and shining armor and glittering hair. No, there was one short person among them. A small figure encased in plate mail wielding a lance, sandy blond hair glowing in the sun. Among the rest of them, she stood out too clearly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gareth, that small one with the lance had to be Gareth. She was the only one Irisviel could place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My king!” The lead one called, a tall man with shining gold hair and blue eyes, “Are you all right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria turned from where she and Merlin had been conversing in low tones. Her golden sword was no longer in her grip, but she didn’t need it to command attention. Her armor gleamed. Her blue dress flashed. The sun struck her hair and created a halo above her head. The faintest image of a shining crown. In the shadows of her bangs, her blue-green eyes glowed. She looked as if she belonged in one of Irisviel’s books. The powerful king, the proud warrior, the chosen hero.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, she was all that, wasn’t she? No story book required.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir Gawain,” Artoria murmured, her song-like voice carrying through the air, “Sir Kay, Sir Bedivere, Sir Tristan, Sir Gareth, Sir Agravian, I am well. It is good to see you all again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Artoria,” Someone, a dark haired man stuck between Sir Gawain’s height and Sir Gareth’s, breathed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s eyes softened a bit. “Hello, brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man, Sir Kay, rushed forwards. He wrapped his arms around Artoria’s frame, and she returned the embrace. And like a flood, all the other knights, except for a long black haired man, rushed in, calling her name. “My King! Arthur! Artoria!” Beside Irisviel, Lancelot swayed forwards, arms tightening around Sir Mordred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel set her hand on his arm. “Set him down and go, Lancelot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot looked at her, then bent, carefully placing Sir Mordred on the ground. Irisviel sat beside him, watching as Lancelot strode forwards to join the huddle of knights around their king. Irisviel felt a smile pull at her lips. Carefully, she placed a hand on Sir Mordred’s forehead, smoothing back his bangs as she watched the reunion. Morgana had failed to stand in front of this once before, she would fail to stand in front of this again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And at that moment, Irisviel was sure that nothing could stand before Artoria and her knights and not be blown away by their bond.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. With the Daughters Kiss, the Curse Lifted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your comments and kudos! They mean the world to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter (fight scenes! Fun times!) and have an absolutely wonderful day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Artoria rarely allowed herself to be held. As king, it was a weakness, something all too human when she had been trying so hard to not be. Yet now she allowed it. Let herself enjoy the feeling of her brother’s arms around her as she returned the embrace. Her knights were there too, crowding around her, blocking out the light. But as much as she enjoyed this moment, this brief second of humanity and vulnerability, it could not last. Her sister was coming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria pulled back from Kay’s embrace. Her knights understood the motion. They pulled away, and she allowed her gaze to travel over their faces. Sir Gareth, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Sir Gawain’s were similarly bright in the shadows of his bangs. Sir Bedivere was crying, a shaky smile on his lips and his hand held close to his chest. Sir Tristan’s head was bowed. Sir Galahad stood a few feet away, glaring at Lancelot. Lancelot ignored him, eyes sorrowful but warm as they gazed at her. Sir Agraiven watched them from afar, arms crossed and scowling. And Sir Mordred . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria’s eyes landed on the boy who had called her father. Irisviel sat beside him, watching them with soft eyes and a smile on her lips. Her fingers rested against Sir Mordred’s head. He was in good hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria pulled her gaze away and stepped back, drawing her kingship close. Shoulders back. Chin up. Power in her voice. “Knight of the Round, our greatest enemy comes. Morgana, my sister, has escaped her bonds. I ask you to follow me once again. I know what she — I did to you all was horrible, but she can not be let loose upon this world. Stand with me one last time, my knights.” She hesitated, then bowed her head. “Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kay’s hand landed on her shoulder, squeezed. “Arty,” he breathed, “of course we’ll stand with you. We aren’t letting you go through this alone. Not again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That forced a breath from her. She ducked her head, smiled at him, and glanced at her knights. Everyone was nodding and smiling. All except Sir Agraiven, standing so separate from the rest. But the dissent of one could not strangle the blossom of warmth in her chest. It was nice to have the support of her knights again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well. Thank you all. Now, let us prepare for my sister’s arrival.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It did not take long. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot fell back to cover Irisviel and Sir Mordred, picking the fallen knight up and ushering Irisviel to cover. Artoria knew he would do his best to keep them safe. But for now, as much as she wished to, she could not focus on them. She had a battle to fight. And Morgana was coming. Artoria could feel it in the very marrow of her bones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stood with her feet planted and her hands on Excalibur’s hilt. Her knights ranged around her. Sir Bedivere with his sword, Kay with his broadsword, Sir Galahad with his shield and Sir Gareth with her lance. Sir Tristan stood a bit back, bow ready, fingers resting lightly on the strings. Sir Agraiven had joined ranks as well, which was no surprise. He had no love for Morgana. And finally, beside Artoria stood Merlin. His playful demeanor had fallen away. He stared at the air, staff gripped tightly in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was nervous, and Artoria knew why. Merlin was a powerful spell caster, but that was only when he had time. Morgana excelled in quick casting, summoning, and illusions. In battle, she would have the upper hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they didn’t have time. The air split like ripping fabric. Morgana stepped out of the rip with all the delicacy of a lady exiting a carriage. In the daylight, her dress was ink, the blue decorations violently bright against the darker fabric. Her features were barely discernible behind her sheer veil. Her hair draped down her back in a pale waterfall, brushing the ground. She spoke, and her voice was dark and silky. “Arthur, my dear, how . . . delightful to see your face.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria was glad for the mask that hid her disgust and fear. Her sister was no enemy to take lightly, and her playful voice sent a chill down Artoria’s spine. “Morgana le Fey,” she said, her voice cold, “your threat to Camelot and the world ends here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morgana chuckled softly. She shook out her dress and straightened. “How impersonal, Arthur. To be able to only speak like that to your own sister, are you sure the curse has been lifted?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite sure.” Merlin shot, his fingers tightening. Artoria kept her mouth shut. Let the spell casters speak on the matters of magic. “She’s no longer your puppet, after all. You should know, as you seem quite good at losing puppets.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Morgana reacted to that barb, she hid it well. “Ah yes, where is Mordred? I should dearly love to see that failure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria lips twitched slightly. Even if Sir Mordred had been Morgana’s puppet, had been Morgana’s way into the castle, had helped her place the curse, he was still Artoria’s knight. “Do not speak of Sir Mordred in such a way.” She brought her sword up, tip pointed at her sister. “He fought valiantly against your control. We shall not let his struggle be in vain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see.” Morgana said darkly. She spread her hands and shrugged. “I guess it can not be helped then. If he refuses to follow my orders, then he is useless and must be cast aside. Quite like your knights who failed you as well. I see Lancelot is not among your number.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I grow tired of your prattling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I am about done, dear brother of mine.” Her voice changed, resonated. “Kill them. Leave the wizard and my brother for me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Merlin cursed, started to speak, but it was too late. The ground around Morgana erupted as skeletons clawed their way out of the earth. Not human skeletons, but dark, twisted things, with too wide jaws and sharp teeth. They raced at her knights, there was the clash of weapons — yet she couldn’t focus on that. Morgana was her target, and anything else was a distraction. Artoria launched herself forwards, a blaze of light, sword aimed for her sister’s throat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel watched behind the rocky outcropping. She half stood, her fingers pressed against stone, eyes wide at the sight. Beside her Lancelot waited, his fingers tight around the grip of his blade. His gaze was likewise focused on the confrontation between knights and sorceress. It was a breathtaking, awe inducing, fearsome sight. Irisviel was certain she should probably keep her gaze on the knights and skeletons, but she couldn’t. Not when Artoria’s battle had her whole attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From somewhere, Artoria had drawn a second reserve of strength. Her glowing sword crashed against a barrier, sending cracks skidding across the surface. Morgana took a step back, made a motion with her hand, and the barrier shot out, slamming against Artoria’s chest and sending her stumbling back. Merlin started to speak, and Morgana made another motion, the ground beside the wizard ripped open. His incantation broke off. He pulled a sword from his robes and struck at the skeleton that lunged at him. It shattered into pieces, he spun, a blaze of light left his staff and broke against Morgana’s shield. Artoria raced forwards again, her sword scraping off the protections, but this time she got away before Morgana could retaliate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel couldn’t breathe. Everything was happening so fast, she could barely keep up with the battle. Artoria was a blur of blue and gold, light trailing her as she attempted to break through Morgana’s shield. Merlin was easier to focus on. His movements were less quick, swiping at the skeletons Morgana sent at him and attempting to retaliate the best he could. Morgana was the easiest to watch of them all. Her protections obstructed the view, but Irisviel could still see the way she held herself, still and confident. Her hands flicked to the sides as she called up her minions. Her protections swirled and thickened where Artoria attacked. Irisviel was very glad she couldn’t make out the face behind the veil, she didn’t want to see the smug superiority Morgana no doubt wore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something changed then. Irisviel wasn’t sure what it was, but something had to. Morgana faltered. She took a step back, and Artoria’s next hit shattered the barrier, letting Merlin’s blazing light to burn its way towards the sorceress. It cut through her, scorched the ground behind as the body faded away. Artoria spun around again, a wild movement. Irisviel caught a glimpse of her face. Completely calm, collected, her eyes shining like jewels as they darted around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So here is where the puppet got to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel froze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And not only the puppet, but a traitor knight and a stranger. Oh, how wonders never cease.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Movement, the rush of it as Lancelot shifted, and that jerky movement broke her fear. She turned. Lancelot stood in front of her with Arondight up and between him and Morgana. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, looking utterly in control of the situation. She had one foot on Sir Mordred’s arm, the heel digging into his flesh. Irisviel felt her breath stall in her throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Morgana asked, pressing harder against Sir Mordred’s arm. He didn’t shift or cry out, just lay there, completely out of it. “No words for me, traitor knight? What about you, stranger. Were you the one who stole Arthur from me? I suppose you must have been, you are pretty enough.” She shifted forwards slightly. </span>
  <b>“Drop the blade Lancelot.”</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot growled. “Compulsions will not work on me, witch!” He lunged forwards. Morgana didn’t move, and when his blade cut through her shoulder, she disappeared. Another illusion. Irisviel stumbled away, placing her back against the rock. Morgana reappeared, right behind Lancelot, a dark, sickly light beading in her palm. It didn’t hit. He spun around, batted her hand away with his blade. She cried out, blood spilled as the beam arced across the ground, scorching it. It barely missed Sir Mordred, and Irisviel had to bite back a scream as Morgana vanished again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at them, so brave, so foolish, trying to protect a world that will tear it apart.” A voice in her ear, soft and smooth and hypnotizing. Irisviel froze again. Fingers grazed her cheek, so hot they hurt. “Do not move, or the King’s new Queen dies.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria ran through the battlefield, striking down skeletons as she went, eyes darting around for any trace of her sister. Her instincts were screaming. Something had gone wrong, something had gone horribly wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was when she heard the cry. She spun around again, caught the sight of the boulders, Lancelot’s dark head only just able to be seen. No. She reversed Excalibur in her grip and shot forwards. No. She couldn’t let Irisviel be harmed, or Sir Mordred. Lancelot was a strong fighter, her first knight, but against Morgana — she wouldn’t dare assume. She twisted around, sabatons digging into the earth as she skidded past the boulders. She brought her blade up, ready to shoot forwards again -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And stopped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lancelot stood with his sword up and his eyes wide, staring in horror at the sight that awaited her. Morgana, with her back against stone and Irisviel pulled against her chest, fingers digging into Irisviel’s cheek. “Oh, hello brother.” She sang, her voice far too amused. “I really must compliment you on your tastes. She is quite the beauty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her eyes met Irisviel’s. They were wide and terrified. The skin that touched Mornaga’s finger was red. Artoria swallowed thickly. “Let her go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you can strike me down? I do not think so. Where is your bumbling fool of a wizard, darling brother?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Busy with the minions you tossed at him.” Artoria hissed. “But he’ll be here in time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.” Morgana ran a bloody finger down Irisviel’s neck, and Irisviel stiffened. Artoria couldn’t stop her growl of anger. “I want him to be here when I kill your pretty new Queen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morgana,” Artoria growled again, “if you harm her, you will die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You will kill me anyway.” She shot back. She tilted her head to murmur something into Irisviel’s ear, and Artoria could only just catch the words. “She will kill her family to keep this world safe. How very heartless of her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel’s face twisted. “Artoria is not heartless.” The words came out in a rush, strained as if she was in pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria jerked a step forwards, but Morgana shifted, wrapping her bloodied hand around Irisviel’s throat. “No moving Arthur. She dies if you do. Now drop Excalibur.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes met Irisviel’s again, searching desperately for an answer. Irisviel smiled softly and shook her head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t give her what she wants.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Artoria could see it written across Irisviel’s features as plain as day. She couldn’t though, she didn’t dare. If Irisviel . . . </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Excalibur dropped from her grip and clanged across the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She couldn’t see Morgana’s face, but she could feel the delighted smugness from it. “Good. Now your traighter knight too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lancelot.” The words fell from numb lips. “Drop your weapon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry my king.” He dropped Arondight. “I could not -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is fine.” Artoria said, even if it wasn’t. “What is done is done. Now, Morgana, what do you want?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh darling brother, where shall I begin?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Noise, it slipped through the dark and silence, begging to be heard. Rocks pressed against skin. Light pushed past closed lids, painting the black with red. Something cold touched his hand. He would know the hilt of a blade anywhere. The familiar feel tugged him further from unconsciousness. The noise became understandable. Words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is fine. What is done is done. Now, Morgana, what do you want?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Father . . . </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh darling brother, where shall I begin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mother . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waited for her orders, the tug of her will against his own. Where was Clarent? Where was his armor? He could feel the sunlight’s warmth against his skin, but the touch of metal and leather was lacking. Likewise, he could no longer feel Morgana’s compulsion. He was adrift. Alone. Free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers twitched. His hand found the hilt of that blade. It wasn’t Clarent, the hilt shaped to hands far larger than his own. It didn’t matter, as long as he had breath in his body, he would fight. For his King. For his Father.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well first off, brother dear, I wish you back under my compulsion. That should work wonderfully well. I want your court wizard dead. Your knights slaughtered. This world, I would dearly love to have that. And I think I would like to keep your lovely new Queen as well. I could make her my plaything. She so dearly looks like a trophy, do you not think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mordred sucked in a slow breath. Morgana had Irisviel, which meant Father could not do anything. His grip tightened slightly. It would be down to him. He would just have to wait for the opportunity to present itself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🜲</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a slow breath, then let it out. Her heartbeat was drumming in her ears. It was difficult to focus on the conversation past those words. Her fingers bunched in her skirt. “I wouldn’t make a good trophy.” She pushed out. “I would break too easily.” Her eyes stayed locked on Artoria’s own. She tried to urge her to move, to pick up her sword and strike. But Artoria didn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It warmed her heart to know just how much Artoria cared, but at the same time it made her want to scream. They couldn’t stand paralyzed in fear like this, just because Morgana had her burning fingers against Irisviel’s cheek and her other hand around her throat. They would get nowhere like this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel would have to get free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well that is part of the charm.” Morgana purred. “I bet my dear brother thinks so too. He does so love having fragile things to protect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Artoria took a step forward, rocks crunching beneath her feet. Her blue-green eyes glowed with fury and desperation. Irisviel could see her helplessness in the tilt of her shoulders and in her wide eye, the way her lips pressed together. And Lancelot too . . . he looked so mournful with his hands empty and raised towards the sky. Then Artoria spoke again, her song-like voice commanding attention. “You do not know what Irisviel is like, Morgana. You would break long before she does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel sucked in a harsh breath at those words. Morgana growled, her fingers tightened around Irisviel’s throat. “Do not test me, brother. I am far stronger than your Queen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are different kinds of strength.” Artoria said. She took another step forward. Her eyes didn’t waver from Irisviel’s. “And Irisviel is the strongest person I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was like fire, those words. They burned through her, sudden and real and so, so powerful. Irisviel couldn’t help but gasp. Morgana said something, sharp and snappish, but even though she was close, Irisviel couldn’t hear the words. Her hands unfisted. She reached into her bag. What did she have . . . vials upon vials upon vials. She could break something and use it as a weapon, but she doubted that she would have the time. Morgana’s burning finger still pressed against her cheek, the hand around her throat still choked off her breath. Fine then, she would do something else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel von Einzbern jerked her elbow back into Morgana’s gut with all the strength of a woman who had been gardening and doing chores for most of her life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morgana choked, her fingers flexing, loosening. It was enough. Irisviel ripped herself from Morgana’s grip, threw herself to the side and tumbled to the ground, hoping desperately that she had bought enough time for Artoria and Lancelot to grab their weapons and retaliate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t get the chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was the whump of air, a burst of red light and the crackle of lightning. The scent of ozone filled Irisviel’s nostrils. A cut off cry of pain. The crack as something struck stone. Irisviel twisted, fingers scrambling against the ground as she tried to figure out what had happened. She froze. Her breath stopped in her throat. Morgana Pendragon dangled from Arondight’s blade, fingers wrapped around the hilt, back pressed against the rock. And holding the blade was Sir Mordred. His face was shadowed by his hair, his teeth bared in effort. Blood trickled onto his hand and down his bare arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Mother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let go and stepped back. Morgana didn’t fall. The blade didn’t clatter into the ground. No, it had been driven into the rock, the hilt pressed right beneath Morgana’s chest. Blood coated her dark dress, smeared against the stone to soak in the ground beneath. Morgana made some sort of rattling gasp, fingers scrabbling at the sword. The veil had fallen. Blood slipped from her mouth. Her ice blue eyes were wide with pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Artoria stepped forward. Her face was blank again, her gem-like eyes cold and hard. Her blade was back in her grip. She walked up to her sister, lifted her chin with Excalibur's tip. “Goodbye, Morgana. Your threat ends here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel looked away before Artoria could drive the sword into Morgana’s throat. When she looked back, the deed was done. The sounds of battle died. Artoria stood there empty-handed, blood splattered across her face and armor. She turned to Irisviel, her mask broken, exhaustion showing plain across her features. Uncertainty and indecision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irisviel didn’t hesitate. She threw herself at Artoria, wrapped her arms around her neck, and broke down against her shoulder.</span>
</p>
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